


Graves

by normanrebates



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, F/M, M/M, Micah croaks because fuck micah, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/normanrebates/pseuds/normanrebates
Summary: When a former member of the gang falls back into Arthur's life,  he holds up a mirror to Arthur's declining morality. Only problem is, Killian's morals aren't exactly what they used to be, either.Meanwhile, a pair of dethroned O'Driscoll brothers seek refuge within the Van Der Linde gang. Wiley and Zeke will do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means joining forces with one of their father's most hated enemies.Previously titled "The Salt and the Sea"





	1. Jimmy Sparks Went Into Bars and Opened Up his Mouth

As the birds in the tree above his head chirped and called to each other like young schoolgirls, Arthur traced the line of the deer's spine once again with his pencil, refining the shape of the shoulder blades on the page. A buck, fleeing through the copse of trees across the road, front legs mantis-like and back legs outstretched, launching over a log or stone. The antlers curved dangerously toward the sky, a warning for predators and other bucks alike.  _ Come closer, meet your fate _ . For such a timid beast, a buck could look so intimidating. The black stripe of nose and mouth, marble-like eyes dark and piercing.

He was camped outside Valentine, set up just inside the line of trees visible behind the stables. His back was pressed against the knotted bark of an oak or some other hardwood, springtime green leaves just beginning to darken into summer's deeper viridian forming a curtain over his head. The sun sparked off the bobbing grass in the field to his right like ripples in the river and Arthur wondered if he would ever be able to capture that movement in stark greys and paper whites. Frost nosed at the ground for more treats, and Arthur obliged, digging another carrot from his bag and tossing it a few feet in front of the horse's muzzle.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Down the path to his left he spotted a horse and rider, and lazily began to sketch the sight as well. Nothing better to do. He was purely trying to get out of camp for a few days. Micah was rubbing him every which way but right, the bastard. He told Dutch he was out scoping for stages, but in reality he just needed a few days by his lonesome. He defined the delicate shape of the horse's outstretched limb, something prickling the back of his neck as he did. He swatted at it, thinking it no more than a bug.

As he moved to pluck the half-empty can of peaches off the ground to finish his supper, he looked back up to get a feel of the horse's coat and the pose of its rider, but he stopped, his pencil freezing.

The horse and its rider were stopped as well, about where Arthur had seen them first, the rider's arms tense and his knees squeezing the horse's sides. That horse looked familiar somehow… a scrawny thing, fully grown but smaller than even a Morgan. The grey of its pelt was scraped and mangy in places, and the muzzle looked mangled with scars. 

_ Glue?  _ He thought. He did know that horse. It was older, looking more donkey than appaloosa now, with a bottlebrush mane and sparse tail, but he recognized the horse. Glue had always been stunted. And for some reason, he had always loved that horse...

The rider wavered for a moment, unease ebbing into the air and wafting toward Arthur, who was downwind and could nearly smell the apprehension the way he could smell a thunderstorm on the horizon. Even at that distance, the familiar cut of the jaw caught his eye.

Arthur set his journal and peaches aside and moved for his holster. Despite the pearl-handled revolver that glinted at the rider's waist, they didn't reach for it. Arthur heard the old nag whicker and he wrenched his own gun free, slapping Frost's side and sending the ghost-white Arabian bucking and galloping through the field. At that same moment, the horse and rider barrelled down the path. The rider's revolver was aimed between his eyes…

Arthur squeezed the trigger, snapped back the hammer, and squeezed again. Two sharp pops shattered the early summer droning of insects. Arthur watched, as if time had slowed to a crawl, the first bullet whip and whizz through the trees, harmlessly, un-bullet-like, clipping a leaf from a branch before disappearing. The second bullet's trail was lost, but he saw the scarlet bloom from the horse's chest. He saw the rider's eyes widen as the horse crumpled beneath him near-soundlessly, heard the snap of bone as the rider's leg was pinned and crushed beneath the girth of the nag. Adrenaline fueled, Arthur vaulted over the slight ridge and around the horse's corpse, but paused.

There, in the blood and mud, unconscious and almost peaceful, was one of his oldest friends.

“Killian? Jesus christ…”

* * *

It was a pain in the hind end to find a way to restrain Killian without hurting his already broken leg. He came around some time after, while Arthur was packing up the camp and throwing things into a bag. Killian was out cold, dirt smeared across his cheek and grass in his pale blond hair. He was still thin, but had put on a bit of muscle since Arthur had seen him last. His shoulders were broader and his arms stronger. No muscle man, by any measure, but still much stronger than the last time Arthur had seen him. He heard the sharp intake of breath as pain woke the little Irishman. 

“Wakey wakey, Sleepin’ Beauty!” Arthur snarled, grabbing Killian by the collar and forcing just enough weight on his broken leg, and Killian croaked out a pained little noise, “You little traitor-rat! What, you runnin’ off out of nowhere ain't bad enough? Now you gotta hunt us down too?”

“Arthur! Arthur please!” Killian whimpered, “I swear, I wasn't goin’ to shoot you! Please. Please!” Arthur released him, and Killian wailed, his leg bent at an odd angle halfway down the shin. Even that made Arthur wince. 

“You wanna explain why you got a bounty poster with my name and face on it in your pocket then?” Arthur snarled. Blood began to flower beneath Killian's pantleg, about where the odd crook of the leg was. Killian couldn't do much more than gasp and choke as bile rose in his throat and he was quietly sick in the dirt.

“Please, Arthur, my leg…”

“We'll do somethin’ ‘bout that leg when you tell me why you had this in your fuckin’ pocket, Paddy.” He tossed the folded wanted poster into the dirt and vomit right next to Killian's face. The Irishman coughed.

“I was… huntin’ bounties. Makin’ a bit of coin for myself. But I weren't hunting for you, Arthur, I swear it. I was takin’ down posters for you and the gang… I…”

“And you just happened to keep this one?!” Arthur grasped Killian's injured leg, blood spilling between this fingers as he did. He felt the sharp edge of a piece of broken bone against the side of his finger and knew he'd fucked up. Killian let out a tiny, guttural noise before his eyes rolled back into his skull and he blacked out. Arthur grumbled, picking up the little Irishman and stowing him behind the saddle. Couldn't risk taking Killian to the doctor and him blurting who he was to someone.

“Goddamn… Ain't got no choice… Come on girl. Back home.” He tapped the spurs against Frost's sides and they headed off down the path toward Horseshoe.

A few years before, Killian had been little more than a spy, wheedling his way into banks and hotels to find out their vault combinations or their gaps in security. He was a good number of years younger than Arthur, a scant 28 to Arthur's 36. Young and dumb. Three or four years before, Killian had run off in the middle of the night after his preferences for men had come to light and he'd met some Saint Denis aristocrat. He'd disappeared and never been seen again… at least until now. He was thinner now, reedier. And he looked particularly unwell. Dark shadows rimmed the underside of his eyes. He was pale, so pale that his freckles stood out like a smattering of mud. The three distinct dark freckles near his left eye, the ones that formed a near perfect triangle, looked black. When Arthur had bound his hands, he saw a latticework of scars, old and new, that encompassed his wrists and the backs of his hands. The thought that it had been done to him by that scrawny little pissant had been enough to boil Arthur's blood. He'd always sworn to protect Killian, and now here he was, the one who'd broken his leg. Some promise.

When Killian came around, Arthur reigned Frost into a stop and helped him sit up.

“I'm sorry, Killian. I don't exactly trust you, not right now, but I forgot that… You know. I promised to…”

“Save it. We both know you only did what you had to do.” Killian swallowed hard, “Stop. Stop. I'll be sick.” Even heavy with pain and delirium, the little singsong Irish lilt colored his words. He pressed his forehead to Arthur's shoulder, and the heat that radiated off of his head burned through his shirt. 

“You sick, boy?” Arthur asked.

“Ain't nothin’.” Killian mumbled, “Touch of a bug, that's all.”

“No it ain't. Burning up,” Arthur spurred Frost hard, and she squealed and took off down the path at a breakneck pace. Killian was nearly thrown from her back, and by the time they rolled into Horseshoe he was barely conscious.

“I need a hand here!” He called, “I found Killian!” Arthur quickly cut the bindings at his wrists and moved aside for Charles’ helping hand. 

“We ever get Sean back, that gives us three Paddy bastards and two folks with the same name,” Pearson chuckled.

“Almost the same,” Kieran piped up, “I'm… I'm only Irish by blood.” Charles helped carry Killian toward Susan's makeshift tent.

“Did I hear you right? Killian is back?” Mary-Beth asked.

“For now,” Arthur replied, watching the rapidly disappearing shape of his former friend, “You know Killian's too much of a caged bird to just stay in one place… give it a week before he takes off once again.”

* * *

After he'd been bandaged up and tucked in for a good rest, Miss Grimshaw came out and stormed across camp to Arthur's side. He and Tilly were playing dominoes on the roughed-up table at the center of camp, and she was, of course, handing him his ass on a silver platter.

"If you have a moment?" Sue asked. Tilly sat back and watched, amused, as Miss Grimshaw slapped Arthur across the face.

"Ow! What the hell, Miss Grimshaw?"

"You know that boy's sick! Always has had some sickness or other. And you went and broke his damn leg!" She slapped him again, "Bastard!"

"I didn't know who he was when I shot the damn horse!"

"And you pushed him down into the dirt and made that broke leg worse! I swear, Arthur Morgan, you have the morality of a… Well you have the morality of a real criminal."

* * *

Wiley O'Driscoll paced the ridge restlessly, dark dustertails whipping as he turned. He tapped the rings on his three-fingered hand against the hilt of his revolver, listening to the muted clinking. He was late.

Daddy would kill him.

The Irishman was supposed to bring him the information, but he should have been there an hour before. That left two distinct possibilities in his mind: either Killian had gone running to the law, or Killian was dead. Both possibilities were equally upsetting.

“Wiley…” he whipped his head around to face the useless heavy that his father had sent with him, “We best head in. Maybe Killian got held up…”

“No. Killian ain't the kind to just not show. He'd power through hell and back if I needed him to. And I need him to.” Finding the Van Der Linde Gang, that was his Daddy's beast. His beast was lifting the money out of Blackwater and getting as far away from Colm O'Driscoll and the dying West as soon as he possibly could. He'd heard of a tidy sum burrowed away in that little hamlet.

Killian was his eyes and ears in that town. He couldn't risk taking off for Blackwater when he was still under Daddy's thumb, but if he knew where it was, how much, and how easy it would be to get, Wiley was willing to risk his father's wrath. Fuck the West, fuck Outlaw gangs, fuck Colm O'Driscoll. Wiley wanted out. 

As the sun began to set, Wiley snarled, enraged, and kicked a prickly pear cactus hard enough to send a few shattered chunks of the fleshy green plant sailing into the canyon below.

“Fucking hell. Pack up. We're riding back for home.”

It was a short ride back to camp, but Wiley stewed the whole time. Daddy was going to be enraged that he was gone so long and came back with no leads. As if that was the kind of information Wiley was getting from Killian. 

Wiley hardly looked the part of a stormy dark O'Driscoll. He was green-eyed and curly-haired, reedily-built. And, like Killian, he preferred men. That was how they bonded. Though they weren't really each other's 'type', they could talk about anything together. Wiley had lifted him from Saint Denis a year or so ago, when whoever had been using him dumped him in the middle of nowhere. They were the best of friends.

"You get held up, boy?" His father asked when he rolled back into camp, hitching his horse by the wagon.

"Yeah, pa. My lead didn't come through."

"That's what I get for putting you in charge of anything. You want responsibility, I give it to you and you squander it. You want to be one of the guys, I let you, and you repay me by fucking one of them. You want to take finding the Van Der Lindes on, I let you, and you fuck it up," Colm grabbed a fistful of warm brown curls and threw him to the dirt. Wiley fell hard, arm lighting up with pain.

"Daddy please!"

"Don't 'daddy please' me, you little waste!" It wasn't the first time Colm had struck him. The impact rattled Wiley's teeth. Pain blossomed behind his right eye.

Colm grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the grass again, hard enough that his head popped against a stone hidden in the earth. Wiley felt blood well up at the back of his skull.

"I should have killed you like I did your pig mother," Colm growled. Wiley pulled at his fingers and wheezed, kicking and squirming in an attempt to get away.

"Please… I'll find them… Please pa!" He choked. Colm snarled and released him, and Wiley rolled to the side to cough.

Finding them had never been his job. And at this point, he didn't care for his job anymore. Any excuse to get out was good enough. He felt the bruises blossoming over his throat already, scrambling backward until he found enough purchase to stand.

"Fine," Colm muttered, "Get out of my sight. Don't come back until you've got a lead on those bastards."

"Y-yes pa. Of course pa." He lingered for a moment, trembling like a kicked puppy, until Colm drew the knife. The same knife used to cut off his fingers a couple of years ago. Wiley winced.

"GET!"

He bolted across camp to his tent, hastily grabbing handfuls of his things and shoving them into bags. He didn't bother taking the tent down. He was headed to a train station and leaving first thing. His father would assume he died. He thought Wiley incapable, after all. He'd use the few bucks he'd stashed away to get a train to Vancouver. That'd be the place to go. Find simple work, build a new life. He didn't need the money in Blackwater. Just a few bucks for a train ride north and he was free. That's what he would do. Find a ranch. Build a new life. Find a boy who liked the same things he did and somehow pin down a new backstory. He was the disenfranchised son of an oil baron, kicked from his home for defying his pa. Yes, that could work...

"Wilder?" He tensed. Zeke. 

"... I can't talk. I have to go,"

"What happened this time?"

"Nothing, Zeke! I just have to go!" His older brother knelt in the dirt next to him and squeezed his shoulder.

"I'll go with you," Zeke had always been the voice of reason. When Colm nearly killed Wiley a few years ago for sleeping with one of the guys, it had been Zeke who stopped him. Wiley still had ended up missing a few fingers for it, but Zeke had saved his life. Zeke looked like their father though. Dark eyed, fair-haired (Daddy had been a corn silk blond before the stress of both being a father and the leader of a gang took their toll), and built for a fight. Wiley didn't know his mother, but he apparently didn't look like her either at first. His hair was black when he was born, and his eyes eventually settled on the same spring green as his mother's, but started out blue as the summer sky. The only similarity between Wiley and their father was that same jawline. Everything else was his mother's face.

No one said it, but it was assumed that Wiley and Zeke's mother had slept around and Wiley hadn't been Colm's son. They all knew it was a lie now, but Colm killed her anyway. He was more slave-driver than father and more beast than husband.

"No, Zeke. Stay here. Please," Wiley hissed.

"You're my baby brother. I have to protect you. Even if it's from our daddy," Zeke helped him load his things onto his horse and lifted him into the saddle, even though Wiley was fully able to do it himself. "Wait for me down the road. We'll get far away from here, Wiley. I promise." 

Wiley swallowed and nodded, spurring his horse through the bushes and out into the scrub land. About ten minutes down, he reined in his horse and slid from her back, a chill curling into his spine. Was he really going to do this? Run away? Like a coward?

Yes. Yes he was.


	2. Better in the Morning

Valentine was a mud pit. Wiley smoothed a gloved hand over his horse's neck, watching a swarm of flies hover over a pile of horse shit while Zeke counted the few dollars they'd managed to steal off some old man with a donkey.

"We got enough for breakfast at least," he said, "not much else."

"Sure," Wiley replied, "Think that saloon there might have somethin'."

"Hitch up the horses then. Come on." Zeke motioned for him to follow and the pair trailed into the saloon. Despite the early hour, there were a fair few people in the main hall. Wiley went to find a place to sit by the window, his back to the wall as he leaned the chair back onto two legs. Zeke, meanwhile, headed over to the bar to order something to eat for the pair of them. Wiley had been watching the poker table, already a hub of activity this early. Pa was wrong. He could play a mean game of poker, and god help anyone who faced him down in Blackjack. The guys thought Wiley had some weird sixth sense for cards, and for where a bullet would land, or a knife would sink into the skin. Wiley called that sixth sense  _ luck. _

"I could hustle a game of poker," Wiley whispered when Zeke came back, "I don't look like I know the first thing about the game."

"No," Zeke huffed, "Not on your life."

"I have a few dollars. I could double it in no time."

"No, Wilder. Stop." Zeke rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What're we gonna do? We have to have something to live off of."

"I'll find a job or something. I promise. But you have to be patient." Wiley started to argue, but one of the barkeeps brought over two plates of breakfast, and he was fully distracted by a pile of food bigger than his head.

"We only spent a dollar." 

"I wasn't very hungry. Go on, Wilder, eat." He did. At least a little. His mind was a million miles away, and he ended up giving a fair amount of his breakfast to his brother. Zeke often went with Wiley when dad occasionally kicked some responsibility his way. The problem was that Wiley was too quick to pull the trigger when things started to go south, and nothing worked out well for them. Pa kept trying anyway. Maybe he thought Wiley would die and he'd finally be rid of him. He was sure that was the case. Why else would his daddy put any stock in him at all?

When the doors swung inward again, Wiley glanced up lazily. The man that walked in was way taller than most people Wiley had ever seen. His long hair was loose and fell just past his shoulder blades, and alongside the revolver holstered by his hip, he had a beaded tomahawk that curved wickedly. Wiley would have just wrote him off as an eccentric or something, but he turned as if he was looking for someone and Wiley felt his heart stop.

_ Damn,  _ he thought,  _ that's a good looking feller.  _ Some blend of black and native, a clear scar on his jaw, and stubble dusting his chin. He scanned the saloon as if he were looking for something, rolling his shoulders before catching Wiley's glance. He tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.

_ Why's he coming this way?  _

"Excuse me," his voice was deep enough that Wiley was sure he could feel it in his chest when the man spoke, "Have you seen a young woman, about this tall--" he held his hand at the middle of his chest-- "in a yellow dress? Um… She's black, if… That helps."

Zeke shook his head and Wiley forced himself to pay attention to his food.

"No, sorry, feller." Zeke said, "But we'll keep an eye ou--" Commotion broke out across the street, and the man tensed.

" _ Charles! Charles, help!" _

"Tilly!" He burst back out onto the porch and Wiley dropped his fork, fumbling for his revolvers.

"What are you doing?!" Zeke hissed, grasping his wrist. Wiley wrenched it free.

"Someone's in trouble, Zeke. I'm gonna help." Loaded. Good. He followed the man out the doors, leaving Zeke exasperated and fumbling to catch up. A group of men had grabbed a young woman out behind the hotel, and the man from the saloon was halfway across the street already. The poor girl was screaming, beating the man's back uselessly. Adrenaline surged through him. Wiley sent a pair of potshots across the street to get their attention, but they didn't seem fazed when the bullets shattered wood dangerously near their heads.  _ Alright, then. I warned you. _

He sent two more bullets sailing across the street, quick as a flash, and both found targets dead center between the crooks' eyes. The third man dropped the girl and took a few steps back. 

If he hadn't recognized him as one of his pa's men, he would have let him go.

_ Hammer back, sights straight, pull the trigger, follow through. _ Blood exploded from the third man's chest, and Wiley tucked the guns back into their holsters, making his way across the street to the girl and the man. Over before it started.

"Thank you," she said. There wasn't a drop of blood on her dress, but a little mud had sullied the hem, "I'm Tilly… This is Charles."

"I'm… William. And no thanks necessary."

The sheriff stumbled out of his office but stopped when he saw there was no further threat.

"Everyone alright?" He called uselessly. Tilly nodded, "Okay. I'll… send the undertaker for the bodies… Or something." Wiley rolled his eyes. Useless lawmen.

"Those were some clean shots," Charles said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment while Wiley dusted his hands off. 

"Yeah, well. We all gotta have hobbies."

"Your hobbies include killin' folk?" Tilly asked. Wiley sucked his teeth.

"I should go," He said, turning on his heel, but Charles' voice stopped him.

"Wait. We… We need a hand. A sharpshooter like you. Your friend can come along, if he can keep his mouth shut… you any good with a rifle?"

"If it's got a trigger and I can shoot it, I won't miss."

"Very well. Welcome aboard, William."

Zeke scrambled through the mud and grabbed Wiley's shoulders.

"What the hell were you thinking?! Are you hurt? What the fuck?!" He fussed over him like a mother hen and sighed with relief when he found his brother unhurt.

"We got work. Get your horse. I'm fine, Zeke! Relax!" He pulled from Zeke's grasp, straightening his hat--besides his revolvers, it was his prized possession. A crisp black bolero with a pink silk band and a single white egret plume tucked into it. 

He was nervous about taking a job after just meeting them, but they needed the money. And Charles and Tilly seemed trustworthy enough. Wiley went to grab the horses and Charles passed him a rifle once they'd saddled up.

"Keep an eye out. Don't think we'll be followed but O'Driscolls are determined," Charles said. Wiley winced a little.

Yes. Yes they were.

* * *

Pinpricks of sunlight filtered into his eyes from above the tent, and the air had that thick post-rain smell. Killian pushed himself upright and groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, Killy," Mis Grimshaw said, stepping over to his side and holding out a tin cup of water. He sipped it, sputtered, and sipped again.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"You're sick," she chided, helping him to lay back down.

"I know."

"You gotta take care of yourself, Killy," she hissed, "... your leg's pretty busted. We got it back into place, but it's gonna take a while to heal." She brushed his hair from his eyes, motherly and gentle despite her hard exterior. Killian took a shaky breath and nodded.

"Can I see Arthur? Or is he still rarin' to string me up?" She tilted her head, confused.

"I'm sure he'd like to see you, son. Why would he want to string you up though?" Killian frowned, but shrugged. Apparently he hadn't told everyone about the poster and the map in his bags.

"I guess he just seemed pretty mad when he killed my horse." She chuckled gently and squeezed his arm.

"I'll go get him." She brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and stood, heading out into camp to hunt Arthur down. Killian took a deep breath and shifted, a knife of red hot pain lancing up from his leg that pulled his breath away. God. It hurt. 

Sue Grimshaw had always treated him like a son. Better than his own mother, the witch, who lived in New York and told the world she only had daughters. Killian's sisters were always trussed up like prized ponies when he saw them. She was wicked, truly. Killian always felt more at home here, camped out under the stars, some randy tune on Javier's guitar or the girls regaling him with stories while he fixed a wagon. He missed this.

Arthur stepped in a few minutes later and Killian flinched away on instinct. Thankfully, he kept his distance.

"What the hell were you doing out there?" Arthur asked, voice low enough that no one else would hear.

"I told you. I was takin' down the posters. I swear it, Arthur, I never woulda done a thing." Arthur shook his head and rubbed his neck. Killian's eyes narrowed. 

"What is this?" He asked, "if I wanted to kill you--"

"You aimed your damn gun at my head!" Arthur snarled.

"I thought if I aimed at you, you wouldn't fuckin' shoot me, you ass!"

"When have you  _ ever _ known that shit to work with me?!"

"I didn't want to die!" Arthur recoiled a little. Killian's leg throbbed and he shifted away from him. The camp outside was quiet, and Dutch shifted across the way to see what was going on inside the tent.

"I didn't want to die," he repeated softly, "Everything I've done has been to keep myself alive." 

"Shit, son, ain't nobody wanna die," he chuckled, "Preachin' to the choir."

"You killed my horse and broke my leg, you gigantic ass." But he felt laughter bubble up in his throat, and Arthur cracked a smile.

"Yeah… Guess I did, huh?"

"You're an ass, Arthur Morgan."

"Hey! I found that crutch you was lookin' for," Mary-Beth peeped in, "You're awake! How are you feelin'?"

"Been better," Killian chuckled. Arthur took the crutch from her and passed it across the tent to Killian. Mary-Beth hugged him and pecked him on the cheek before she left again, chirping about him not being a stranger and to come see the other girls when he was feeling better. Killian sighed gently, brushing his own hair back and twisting a lock around his finger..

"Well… I guess that's that. I'm stayin'." He said.

"Just like that?" Arthur asked, "After I shot your horse out from under you and broke your leg and all that?"

"Did I say I was staying for you?" His tone might have carried a bit more venom than it needed to, "Not like I can go much of anywhere like this, boyo." Arthur sighed and clasped his shoulder.

"Get some rest, boy. The sooner we get you up and at'em, the sooner we can put you to work." Killian laughed, flopping back into bed, but he didn't sleep.

No, he simply closed his eyes and waited until it would be acceptable to wake back up.

When he did, Arthur was gone.

* * *

"I get the sense you boys don't have much concern to killing those who need it. And these fellas need it," Tilly called as they rounded another corner.

"If the pay's good, I'll do whatever to whoever deserves it." Wiley chirped. He drummed his his pointer and middle finger on his left hand against the saddle. 

"Where'd that shiner come from anyway?" She asked.

"My um… I fell." The standard lie made him wince. It sounded forced and entirely unnatural.

"And your hand?"

"Bad luck with a combine." Another lie. It was hard to be honest with anyone. He was worried they'd find out who they were.

A few months back he remembered seeing them both with the Van Der Lindes. Briefly. And he'd certainly not realized how tall Charles was.

The cabin was isolated, nestled between two hills and butted up against a third. It was enough to make Wiley nervous about it, being bottlenecked in like that, but Charles had them ride past and hitch the horses around the corner and climb over the hill while Tilly ran up to the door to put her acting skills to work. Wiley set up behind a rock, his eyes locked on the front door as it opened while Charles snuck down to the back. Well, mostly locked… He glanced at Charles as he slipped soundlessly down the side of the hill.

"Why are we helping them, Wiley?" Zeke hissed, loading his own rifle, "They's van der Lindes."

"Shut up, Zeke," he muttered, "We need money." Wiley checked his gun once more, shifting a little and pushing his bolero back.

The shouting started and Wiley let off a shot, cutting through the man at the door's neck. Tilly jumped out of the way as a second man with a knife ran at her. Another shot cut the mans legs out from under him, and Tilly fired her handgun to finish the job. A few men poured out of the cabin and Zeke finally got a shot off. It hit one man between the shoulder blades, and Wiley's shot struck the other in the neck once again. Gunfire in the cabin drew his attention, but it was cut short, and the final man backed out of the door with a shotgun aimed at Charles.

"No no no no no…"

Wiley's heart launched into his throat and he fired the rifle on instinct rather than carefully, steadily.

He didn't see where the bullet hit him, but the man folded over like a doll, and Wiley breathed a sigh of relief.

"Come on down." Wiley shouldered the Rifle and Zeke just kept staring with wide eyes, eventually following his brother down the hill. He had a smear of blood across his mouth like a dash of paint and Wiley just wanted to kiss him.

He didn't.

But he wanted to.

Charles passed out money and valuables to the brothers, clapping Wiley on the shoulder.

"Real good work. If you boys need work, I know a group of folks who'd be happy to take you in… You're good at what you do."

"Ah, I don't know," Zeke started, but Wiley cut him off.

"No! We'll do it. We've been drifting for a bit now. We could lend y'all a hand."

"Wiley…" Zeke elbowed him in the ribs, but Wiley ignored him.

"We'll go with you. Show us where to go." He would be lying if he said Charles wasn't a good three-quarters of the reason that Wiley wanted to stay with the gang.

A man burst from the outhouse and roared, swinging a hammer at Charles' head. Wiley didn't remember drawing his gun, or pulling the trigger, but he remembered watching Walt drop like a sack of rocks. His eyes were wide but his hands were steady as stone.

"W… Wiley?" The man wheezed as Wiley aimed between his eyes. "Wilder Abraham O'Driscoll… Working for the Van Der Linde gang… Now I seen it a--" 

"Shut up."

"Your daddy know you're running rampant with a fuckin n--"

"Shutupshutupshutup!" Wiley pulled the trigger again and Walt fell silent. Everything fell silent.

He expected Tilly and Charles to descend upon him like a pair of wild dogs, but they simply finished loading up the horses. Charles glanced back at him.

"Offer still stands, Wiley. Doesn't matter to me who your family is if you can shoot straight."

* * *

_ Here, Ezekiel. I know you'll do great things. You'll make someone real proud of you one day. _

He remembered the weight of the revolver in his hands, how it glittered and shone in the light. He was nine, but tall for his age. Wiley was six, short and round and bubbling with enthusiasm over the puppy that Grandpa and Grandma had gotten. Their grandfather was short and kind, nothing like their cruel, tall father.

The trail Charles took them down was narrow and steep on one side, bordered by a steep cliff face on the other. Wiley was behind him, whistling  _ Oh! Susannah _ and jangling his spurs. He'd thinned out as he grew, and never caught up again. Zeke glanced back at him, smiling gently.

"Hey, Wiley. You know any other songs?"

He grinned, and switched from  _ Oh! Susannah _ to  _ The Maple Leaf Rag. _

"Better." He laughed. Tilly glanced back at him and smiled.

"You're awful good with that horse, Mr. Zeke," she said, "Your daddy teach you about them?"

"No Ma'am. My Grandpa did… He was real good with animals." 

"Well, it's real impressive…" she smiled gently and turned back to face the road. 

That night Wiley fell asleep next to the fire with the puppy, clinging to a wooden horse his grandpa had carved for him, and Zeke told himself that if he were going to make anyone proud, it would be his baby brother.


	3. All the Pretty Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this update! This chapter is pretty rough but I've been busy with a lot of stuff for work. I usually write between calls at work but I've been moving around the office a little while.
> 
> This is boring. But more exciting stuff will come soon!

The razor bit into his cheek and Arthur winced.

"Shit," he muttered, wiping the bead of blood from his jaw and rinsing it into the bowl. He'd stumbled back into camp that morning with a handful of game birds and a couple dollars in cash, which he dumped into the camp lockbox, before he made his way over to shave.

This early, the camp was peaceful. A thin blanket of fog had risen from the river overnight and the sunlight trickled through the leaves in glittering beams. One of those sights he wished he could capture in pencil and paper. 

"Morning, Arthur," he turned, watching Killian wobble out of their little makeshift medical tent, the crutch sinking into the grass.

"How's it goin', hop-along?"

"Goin'." Killian yawned, "Where'd you get off to last night?"

"Why? You lookin'?" He leaned closer to the mirror to finish shaving, "you look like you need a shave too, by the way, blondie."

"I just wondered, since you vanished and no one knew where off to. Dutch claimed that's your new hobby, running off out of nowhere." Killian sat heavily at the table. His leg was bound up with scraps of fabric from around the camp and splinted with two broken boards, but it would work.

"Like Dutch knows anything." Arthur mumbled.

"Well, he knows a lot more than I think you give him credit for, you know?" The sound of hooves coming up the path drew Arthur's attention.

"Charles and Tilly must be back."

"Sounds like more than two horses, Arthur." Killian pushed himself back to his good foot, reaching for his pearl-handled revolver but coming up empty-handed. 

"Did you take my gun?" He snapped.

"What? Oh. Um… Yeah. While you was out. They probably just grabbed some horses or somethin'. It'll be okay." Killian sniffed indignantly and limped over to get a better look at the path leading into camp. He recognized Charles and Tilly immediately, and the black duster and bolero were familiar, but the last of the group, in a blue button-down and black pants, he didn't recognize.

"Killian? Killian O'Malley? Christ almighty, boy, the hell are you doin' here?" 

"Wiley? Lordy, it's really you!" Killian hobbled over and clapped Wiley on the back, grinning. Once Tilly and Charles were out of earshot he tipped his head closer.

"Really, what the hell?" He hissed through his teeth.

"Long story, partner. Any word on the money?" Wiley whispered.

"Oh yeah. Got a whole paragraph, boyo. Beecher's Hope."

"Lot of land there."

"It's a start. I'll get you that money yet, Wiley. Just you wait. And then you can head for the hills." Killian thumped his back again and nodded toward the other man, "Who's this?"

"My brother. Zeke. He's a damn fool, but he's a good man…" Wiley sighed, "What happened to your leg?" Killian chuckled.

"Arthur happened to my leg. He shot my horse." Wiley wiped his hands on his duster.

"I hope we can get the cash soon… Nothing here for us." The O'Driscoll said.

"Give me a few weeks. Once my leg heals some, we grab shovels and start digging."

* * *

Four months came and went like sunrise and sunset. Killian blew a stream of smoke out of his nose as his turn at watch crawled to a close. He leaned back against the tree, listening to the lazy sound of birds stirring in the woods. The air was starting to carry a chill with it, which meant fall. Which meant he was pushing 29. Which meant, according to his mother, he would die alone.

_ Better than under your thumb, mammy. _

It didn't really bother Killian. Unlike his mother, he didn't need a family in the sense of a marriage and children. He had his own weird, ragtag little family right here.

The camp was starting to wake up. He could hear Pearson puttering around in his wagon and a few voices starting to rise from the tents. Part of why he loved the midnight watch was the few hours of peace and quiet.

It never lasted long, but a little peace and a little quiet was all it took to keep him sane. He liked Charles and John and even Javier and Kieran. And Arthur, sometimes, even if he was mercurial at best and temperamental at worst. Hard to believe there was a time a few years ago he'd thought him the epitome of a man.

He snuffed the end of the cigarette out on his bootheel, but held onto it. Waste not, want not.

"Hey Killian," Charles said, "My turn. Hey, Dutch wanted to talk to you if you have a minute."

"What, he doesn't want to talk to the prodigal son, Arthur Morgan? Yeah, alright. What's Wiley got up to?"

"I don't know." Charles sounded confused, "Why would I know?"

"Oh, come on, Charlie, he's sweet on you. Anyone could see it," Killian chuckled when Charles rolled his eyes.

"Hey, don't go telling people that, alright?" He half-begged, "You know what they would think."

"What? That you were complicit in his little crush? The kid's used to rejection, boyo, he sure doesn't think you're complicit in anything," Killian thumped him on the back and headed into camp. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fire and yawned, stooping to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning, Mr. O'Malley." Dutch said. He always did that. Mr. O'Malley. Ms. Adler. Mr. Wilder. Mr. Ezekiel. The last two made him laugh. Wiley and Zeke had refused to openly give out their last names. Kieran had recognized them but didn't say anything about how he knew them. Guess he knew more than he let on.

"Mornin', Boss. Charles said you wanted to speak to me?"

"I did. Yes. I do. I got word late last night. Mr. Bell's gotten himself into a spot of trouble. Up in Strawberry. You're clever, Mr. O'Malley. I'd like for you to retrieve him." Killian stood and sipped his coffee thoughtfully for a few minutes, tapping his fingers against the tin mug. What risk was there in defying Dutch van Der Linde when your skills as a little sneak were valuable? Well, pretty great still. But he wasn't going after fucking Micah.

"How about I don't? Did you forget that Micah was the one who shared my little secret all through camp? Got a lot of people real mad? The reason you lost your favorite little spy for near 4 years? Micah's a big boy, Dutch. He can either get himself out of it, or he can deal with it." He took another sip of the coffee, stifling another yawn behind his hand. Dutch chewed thoughtfully on his cigar.

"... You're right. Micah is nothing but a heap of trouble."

"Then why would we go get him? Why would be bother going to help Micah Bell? Would he do the same for any of us?"

"... No. No he wouldn't."

"Getting Sean? I accept that. Sean's crazy but he would do the same for any of us that's captured. Micah? He'd laugh and tell us to kiss his ass."

Dutch sighed and rubbed his eye with the back of his thumb.

"No. You're right. Micah Bell would laugh at us for asking him for help…" Dutch sighed, "Good call."

"Naturally." He finished his coffee and stretched, tucking his gun back onto his horse's saddle. He was a brand new stallion with a sleek skewbald coat and wild eyes, but he was gentle underneath. Killian had bought him with his own money. He loved the wild, free nature of a good stallion.

Arthur rolled out of bed as Killian headed back in to tent a few hours of sleep. He gave him a brief nod before disappearing into bed.

* * *

A couple hours later he awoke, yawning, and pushed himself to his feet again. Camp was a bustle of activity, and he paused by a bucket to wash his face. Ugh. He needed a bath.

Killian rolled up his sleeves and strolled out into camp, pausing to chat with Javier before heading to his horse. Valentine was only an hour's ride. He could get a bath and a haircut there.

Emphasis on the bath.

Killian paused by his horse to count his money. Twenty dollars, which was much more money than he thought he had. While he was counting his pennies, Arthur strolled by.

"Hey, Killy," he said. Killian smiled a little.

"Hey, dumbass."

"Okay, that's uncalled for. Where you going with all that money then?" Arthur climbed up onto Frost's back.

"Bath and a haircut. Starting to look like I'm actually some transient. You goin' my way?"

"Valentine?"

"Sure." He pulled himself up into the saddle. Killian's leg was a little weak still, and ached in places that it shouldn't have, but he could ride and move again. He let Arthur head off down the path first before he set out himself. They were a good ways away from camp before Arthur spoke up.

"We gotta talk, Killian," he sighed, "I… I found that map and all that in your bags. Notes in your journal." 

Killian swallowed. "... Yep."

"And I know them boys is O'Driscolls. So… Just tell me the truth I guess." 

Killian was silent at first, brushing his hair back.

"... Wiley reminds me of me when I was a bit younger. His daddy does to him what my mammy did to me--ignores him at best. Beats him at worst. He's missin' fingers. His brother's blind in one eye--"

"Zeke's got a blind eye? Hell. Never would have figured."

"Yeah. He stepped in when Colm was gonna kill Wiley. Can't see anything but a blur in that eye. He don't like tellin' people though. He's worried it makes him look weak." Killian spurred his horse forward to match pace with Arthur on the road.

"What's that got to do with the money in Beecher's Hope?"

"Nothin' now. Wiley's got away. We were gonna go get the money so he could get out, head way up north to safety. But he likes it with the gang, and as long as the kid's safe, I don't care about the money any more than I think he does. It was to make him safe. Poor kid deserves a shred of happiness." 

Arthur was quiet for a few minutes afterward. He tapped his spurs against Frost's sides to make her move a little faster, but Killian hung back.

"You're going to tell everyone, aren't you?"

"Nah. You ain't told him nothin' about it, and Dutch's all but forgotten about that money anyway… You ain't got nothing to worry about." Arthur shrugged a shoulder and Killian felt his blood go cold. He _ had _ told him where the money was. But Wiley hadn't asked about it since the first day he was at camp. Either Wiley didn't care anymore or he'd forgotten.

"I gotta ask you something else." Arthur said, glancing back.

"Yeah?"

"What happened with that feller in Saint Denis?" Killian sighed and spurred his horse up next to Frost again.

"He wasn't the man I thought he was, cowboy. I wasn't much more than a toy for him. So I slit his throat." 

"What?"

"I did. I slit his throat. I had enough of it. Decided to get stronger afterward. Wiley found me and helped me back on my feet." He chuckled, "Does that bother you?"

"Well… No, not precisely. Just surprises me. You never liked to fight before."

"Times have changed, Arthur. I'm not that little scrawny kid Hosea pulled out of a mining camp anymore. And I tell you one thing, I'll be damned before another man does to me what that bastard did." He sounded like Sadie, and he wondered if those O'Driscolls had done the same to her as Gaspard had done to him. 

"What did he do?" Arthur asked. He was quieter now. Killian sighed.

"I'd rather not talk about it, if it so pleases you."

"Sure."

They rode the rest of the way to town in silence, save the occasional greeting from people riding by. Arthur kept giving him the occasional odd glance over his shoulder, but Killian ignored it. There was some beautiful country. Hosea was right. 

They hitched their horses by the stables when they arrived in town. Killian tucked his money clip into his pocket and limped toward the hotel first. "Bath first?" Arthur asked.

"What did you even come to town for?" Killian muttered, "Make fun of me?"

"What's your problem, boy?"

"I don't have a problem, Arthur. You've changed. That's all." He limped off into the hotel.

* * *

Belatedly, Arthur realized that Killian did, indeed, have a problem. And what had caused it. The source of that problem had its throat slit, but the problem still lingered. He leaned against the post by the saloon and smoked through a cigarette.

"Poor kid," he muttered.

He was hardly a kid anymore, though. A few weeks ago, one of the last heatwaves rolled through the Heartlands. Killian had been helping Kieran with the horses through the scorcher, shirt tossed aside and barefoot. No, not a kid anymore at all. He was still a good few inches shorter than Arthur, but looked like he could have just as easily out-wrestled him.

When the Count had broke from the group, Killian took off on his sleek skewbald horse, roped the horse, and dragged him back no trouble. Arthur had caught himself staring.

Why had he been staring?

Killian limped back out of the hotel a few minutes later, scrubbed squeaky clean, and Arthur chuckled.

"Look at you, all nice and tidy."

"Kiss my arse, Arthur. At least I bathe once in a blue moon."

"I bathe. Just… not all fancy." 

Killian limped across the street and into the saloon, running his hands through his shaggy blond hair.

"I'm thinking short," he said, "real short. I look like some sheepdog."

"You look fine, boy." Arthur muttered, watching him step inside to the barber's chair. He took a seat at a table to wait for him.

Why had he been staring? There was something different now. Tougher. More handsome?

Nonsense.

Killian was different, but that didn't change that Arthur still saw him as some punk kid. He'd always held some attraction to men, after all. Maybe Killian had always been one of them, somewhere deep down. He didn't know. 

Killian was as charming as could be. He had the barber laughing while he got to work with the scissors and razor, cleaning up scruffy blonde hair until he looked halfway presentable.

Maybe he did see him differently now. Arthur dropped his chin into his hand and bounced his leg as he waited for Killian to finish up. He didn't come to town for the sole purpose of watching Killian get trussed up like a prize pig. He paid the barber a few cents and ran a hand over his short hair, and motioned for Arthur to head over to the bar before heading back out.

"Give my buddy here the strongest Irish shit you have. Me too." The barman poured them both a glass of some dark whiskey and Killian leaned his back against the bar, taking a sip.

"How's your leg?" Arthur asked, tossing back his glass and instantly regretting it. It burned like a fire all the way down, deadening his nerves and leaving him coughing.

"Easy there, big man. You don't shoot it back like that. Jesus."

"Well I didn't know." He choked.

"We should stay in town." Killian said, "it's gonna get dark and there's been a couple mountain lions… I really would prefer to not get mauled."

* * *

The way Arthur was looking at him, Killian thought he'd offended him somehow.

"Or not," he muttered, "Whatever appeases you." He waved his hand dismissively, taking another sip. 

"... We gotta go up to Strawberry."

"What? Why?"

"We gotta go get Micah."

"Oh fuck off," Killian slammed his glass down, sloshing whiskey across the bar, "Micah can fucking eat it. Racist, stupid asshole. He outed me to everyone, Arthur. You can't do that to me." Arthur's head tipped almost imperceptibly to the side, brows shrinking a fraction of an inch, "Don't do this to me," Killian repeated.

"I… I told Dutch--"

"Damn Dutch, Arthur! It's me or Micah. If he comes, I leave." Arthur worried his lip, and Killian felt some strange sense of guilt sink into his belly. _ No wait. Don't feel bad on my behalf... _

"... Okay. Okay. We'll leave him, Killian. He wouldn't bother with us." Killian blew a sigh of relief between his teeth and sagged somewhat against the bar.

"John, you, Hosea, Charles, hell, even Uncle, I'd keep around. I'd go through hell and back for you lot. But Micah Bell can choke. Now. Are we staying the night in town?"

"... We might as well." Arthur sighed, a semblance of a smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. Killian led the way once again, across the street to the hotel.

"Back so soon?" The concierge asked. Killian shrugged a shoulder."

"Mountain lions have been comin' down from the north these past few nights. Days been gettin' shorter too. Figured we'd rent a few rooms." He pulled a few bills from his pocket but the concierge held up his hands.

"Sorry fellers. I only have one room. I don't mind renting it to toy pair but…" Killian sighed.

"We could camp I guess."

"Nah, I'll sleep on the floor… We'll take it." Killian blinked, handing the money over for the room. The concierge raised a brow but said nothing.

Killian was glad he kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Pearson called that supper was finished about the same time Wiley's shift as guard ended. Lenny took his place, chattering pleasantly about the turn in weather. Zeke and Tilly had cozied up by the fire with bowls of stew, and Wiley smiled gently. Zeke had always been Daddy's favorite son. He was handsome and sleek and clever. It only made sense that in just a few months he'd won over some pretty girl.

It wasn't that Wiley wanted a pretty girl. It was… Hard to put into so few words. He always felt like a background character in the story of Zeke's life. Part of the hero's journey--some author he'd met once in New York had told him about that. _ Sometimes that's all we are. Background characters. Exposition. Details in the rich world of someone else's life. _

Wiley tried to imagine being the hero of some story. He'd have changed a few details, of course. He wouldn't have a head of unruly brown curls. He would have all his fingers back. Taller. Stronger. Smarter, because Wiley couldn't do much more than write his own name. A better backstory, without the beatings and abuse and cruel words.

And, of course, the issue of men. 

One in particular.

Charles. Tall and muscled like a tiger. Sharp as a tack. He tried to imagine a she-Charles and snickered into his stew. No. Even if Charles pulled him in like some new kind of gravity, he would still never glance that way if Charles was a woman.

The bench creaked next to him, and he glanced over to see--speak of the devil-- Charles starting in on his own bowl of dinner. A she-Charles wouldn't put that same tingle in his belly. She could be beautiful, painfully so, the same dark eyes and long, wild hair and the same skill with a bow and a tomahawk, and he still wouldn't feel that same magnetic attraction. He'd still absolutely adore her, but not in the same way. No, he couldn't play pretend the way Dad would have liked him to. He wanted…

That night in the tent, with Daniel or David or whatever his name was. He'd never felt cared for like that. He was gentle. He was soft. He was loving. They weren't in love, not really. They'd flirted a few times and kissed once. He'd had a mustache that tickled Wiley's nose.

Then he'd died in a bad way.

Wiley _ could have _ loved Daniel. He remembered now. His name had been Daniel. He was Irish--a name like O'Driscoll attracted the Irish, even though three generations now, they'd been born on American soil. But he wasn't so trigger-happy that Wiley instantly detested him. Dark hair and light eyes--he wasn't so sure if they had been green or grey or blue.

_ Funny how what was inside every man's head was the same. _

Wiley fumbled his stew bowl and dropped it into the grass, spilling deer meat and potatoes everywhere. Charles scanned him with dark eyes and an unreadable expression. The stew looked like gore in the sunset.

"Shit," he muttered, plucking the bowl and spoon off the ground. He didn't go back for more.

* * *

Zeke wanted to say it.

But he didn't. He gave Tilly a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, and she rested her head on his. 

"You're worried 'bout Wiley, aren't you?" She asked softly.

"Every day," he said gently, "But… He's… Not been himself today."

"He might just be feeling off. I'm sure he's fine, honey." She pushed a lock of corn silk blond hair back behind his ear and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. They'd have drawn looks anywhere else but here, at home. With his family. Here this was just par for the course. You found someone, you latched on. And you didn't let go.

He wanted to say it. He wanted to tell Wiley to take that chance.

But he didn't.

* * *

"Hey Wiley. I been meaning to ask. Where'd that scar on your cheek come from?" Charles asked, while Javier strummed his guitar and Zeke and Tilly tried to look like they weren't kissing. The spilled stew was still there in the grass, cooling. Charles watched as Wiley tugged at a curl of brown hair, worried his bottom lip. 

"I uh… Was in an asylum out East for a while. New York," Wiley cleared his throat.

"No kidding? I've heard horror stories about those. What for?"

"My father put me there…"

"Oh… I'm sorry. I uh…"

Wiley turned to him, green eyes clouded with fear and worry and something else altogether. Anguish? Perhaps. His brows furrowed and he took a deep breath.

"... I burned that fucking place to the ground," he whispered, looking away. His eyes reflected the campfire. In the shine of his irises, the flames looked ten times the size, "And I never looked back."

Charles gently touched his shoulder, and Wiley sighed as if the weight of a thousand worlds had been lifted. It was hard to believe someone so young could have dealt with so much. But his father was a monster, from what Charles understood. He'd never met Colm O'Driscoll himself. They way Wiley and the others talked about him, though, Charles knew he'd be lucky if he never ran into him.


	4. Norman fucking Rockwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was really tempted to write the kind of raunchy self-serving fanfic this chapter that I can't help but devour, but this isn't that story and I can't write smut anyway. Implied sexytimes though.
> 
> Things are about to get interesting.

"Are there really mountain lions, Killian?" Arthur asked, tossing his gunbelt over the back of the chair while Killian washed his face in the basin by the fireplace.

"Depends. In general? Of course. You shot that one that tried to eat me out at Mount Shann when we were kids. This far down south? Who knows. That's what's been said, of course. But it could just be word of mouth." He dried his face on the towel and kicked off his boots. Shiny black ropers with silver threadwork. Arthur could see the way his leg bowed and hadn't set properly, and he winced.

"... You never answered me about your leg."

"It don't hurt. Though it ain't the same," Killian flopped backwards on the bed, rubbing his eyes, "it was a blessing in disguise though, Arthur. Oisín is a good horse." Arthur chuckled, rolling out his bed roll and smoothing out the corners. Arthur caught the slight, pained shift in expression on Killian's face.

"... Hey. Come up here. No use in sleepin' in the floor. We're payin' for a bed. Might as well both of us use it." Killian offered him a hand, and Arthur scanned him with a puzzled expression, "I'm not trying anything. No need for the queer panic."

Arthur took his hand, confused, and pulled himself to his feet, sitting beside Killian. The Irishman hesitated for a moment, before pulling his feet up underneath himself and crawling against the wall.

"I'll sleep here," he muttered softly, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. Impossible, considering his growth spurt in a few short years. Arthur reached over and turned the oil lamp down to a bare flicker as the embers in the fireplace died.

This should have felt more awkward. It should have been upsetting somehow. But it was…

Comforting?

Arthur felt Killian's heel brush against the back of his leg as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. Arthur curled up under the blankets and tried to ignore it, but it was there anyway. A nameless urge. Killian had crammed himself into the corner of the bed, trying to give Arthur plenty of space. The whole thing made Arthur feel ridiculous. Here Killian was, trying to keep Arthur from being uncomfortable, when Arthur was anything  _ but  _ uncomfortable around him.

Enough wrestling the bear. Enough dancing around it. The last time Arthur had seen him he'd been nothing more than a little sneak. He'd shaped up into something completely  _ other.  _ Entirely  _ foreign  _ now.

But it was still Killian.

Arthur rolled to his opposite side, reaching out a calloused hand but pausing. He had no proof Killian saw something in Arthur.

No. He couldn't. He couldn't see something  _ other  _ in Arthur. He was too good. With his freckled cheeks and hazel eyes and white-blonde hair, he was pure. Porcelain. And Arthur's hands were always dark and dirty. He'd stain him. Tarnish him. 

He didn't remember closing his eyes, but he remembered Killian's cool, equally-calloused hand touching his jaw. He remembered opening his eyes and finding Killian's puzzled, pretty face inches from his.

"I'm sorry." Killian pulled his hand back, snatching it as if burned.

"Don't." Arthur took his hand back, smoothing his scarred fingers over the creases in Killian's palm. He wanted…

What did he want? He was an old fool, just shy of eight years older than Killian.

He was so close. Mere inches away. How many more times could he get burned before there was nothing left to burn?

Would Killian let him burn?

"Don't," Arthur said again, touching Killian's palm again. The backs of his hands were covered in scars. Burns from a cigar. He knew Gaspard had done something to him, but Killian didn't like to talk about it. 

"Rewards for not listening." Killian murmured, "Sometimes my hands still ache."

Arthur reached out, tipping his chin up.

"That's over now. Ain't no one gonna hurt you like that again. I promise."

"You make so many promises, Arthur. I wonder if you mean them."

"I mean this one," and it felt so natural to close that gap between them. Killian's lips tasted like that strong whiskey and those expensive cigarettes he smoked, and something else. Butterscotch.

Killian pulled back, eyes wild like a spooked horse. "What are you doing?" He hissed, "Stop."

Arthur released him, confusion ebbing back, "But I thought…"

"You always could find the strangest ways to make fun of a man."

"I'm not!" Arthur took his face in his hands. "I could never."

Killian closed his eyes and threaded his fingers with Arthur's, inhaling deeply.

"Do you mean it?"

"Of course I do. I've never meant anything more in my life."

* * *

* * *

Thunder broke the sky and startled Killian awake. He glanced out the window, the buildings across the street melting into an abstract painting with the rain on the pane. The storm wasn't the most surprising part.

Arthur's arms were around him, pressing his back into Arthur's chest.

"Good morning," Arthur murmured.

"Did I wake you?" Killian rolled in his arms, at once spooked and warm. At home.

"Of course not… Can I kiss you again?"

"You're asking this time?" Killian chuckled, pressing a kiss to Arthur's mouth. "So, now that I've demolished your lady-killer image, I wonder what's next?"

"I ain't never had a lady-killer image, boy." The gruffness in his voice sent a delightful little tingle up Killian's spine, "And… I dunno. This storm's bad. We could just stay here…"

"We could… But this isn't what I expected…" Still. Far be it from Killian to turn down any ounce of affection. Even if he was sure this would crash and burn. Arthur tucked him neatly under his chin and draped his arm over his side, letting the storm outside lash out. They were dry, and warm, and together here. Even if everything outside was going to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

Zeke pulled his collar up to cover his ears, the downpour making watch a dreadful task. The brim of his hat sagged under the weight of the water.

"I'm glad Arthur and Killian didn't try to hoof it home last night!" Tilly called to him, stumbling down the hillside, "Bill says he seen O'Driscolls all over the road to Valentine on his way back in. You seen anything?"

"No! Storm's so bad, even the animals are laying low! Get back to the wagon, Tilly, you'll catch a cold!" She shook her head defiantly, squinting as rain splashed against her face. Even through the trees, it hit like buckshot. The clouds roared overhead, the woods lighting up with a purple-blue glow and a sound so loud they both nearly jumped out of their skins.

"We best check and make sure nothin' caught fire!" Zeke said. He took her hand gently and led her into the trees, picking his way over shrubs and grass and stumbling a little over the rocks. Even in the rain, he could smell scorched wood and burnt leaves as they came across now-shattered husk of an ancient oak. The rain had snuffed whatever small fire began, but smoke curled into the sky from the split wood.

"We got real lucky there," he muttered, "Rain kept it from catching too bad…"

"Storms make you nervous honey?" Tilly asked. The rain was letting up a little so they didn't have to shout to talk to each other anymore.

"When I was a boy, a storm lit up a tree like that and caught our whole camp on fire. Lost a lot of guys because they got trapped in their tents and couldn't get out. Wiley was a baby… Pa got us out in time. Wiley has never been scared of fire, but it terrifies me. Last thing I wanted is for us to get caught in a fire too." Tilly sighed gently, resting her head on his shoulder, and it kept the gnawing worry away for a little while.

"Your brother means a lot to you, don't he?" She asked, brushing a wet lock of blond hair from Zeke's eyes.

"More than anything. Besides you, anyway." She grinned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"Sorry I called them O'Driscolls like that."

"Don't bother me none. Far as I'm concerned, they're a different animal entirely."

"I just meant, 'cause of your daddy…" she trailed off, and Zeke forced himself to look toward the tree again, "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Till… it's.. it's complicated."

"What do you mean?" She asked. They turned back toward camp and she held fast to his arm. God, she made Zeke melt. He shook his head and pressed a kiss to her temple, tucking a loose coil of dark hair out of her face and into her chignon.

"I'll tell you one day… Right now, let's just go get warmed back up."

* * *

Arthur next awoke with his arms empty and the door wide open. Adrenaline surged through him, and he launched out of bed, stumbling over Killian's sleek ropers and his own worn boots.

"Killian?"

The door at the end of the hall opened, the one that led out onto a walkway above the entrance of the hotel.

"I'm here. Needed a smoke." Killian held the door open for him and Arthur stepped outside. The sky was clear now, but pools of water and mud decorated the street. Arthur looped an arm around Killian's waist, trying to calm his thundering heart.

"I… I don't know what I thought happened, but you was gone, so I…"

"Easy, big boy. I'm fine. He offered a cigarette to Arthur, striking the match against the railing and lighting the end of it for him. He took a drag, blowing the smoke from his nose, and Arthur swallowed. He had on one of those kind of puffy shirts, the kind a pirate in a dime store novel would wear on the cover, unbuttoned to his navel, and his black leather gloves to hide the scars on his hands, suspenders barely keeping his pants up, hazel eyes contemplative. One bare foot was on the bottom of the railing and the other on the floor.

His shoulders were hunched, his newly-cut hair messy from humidity. He wanted to grab him up like some working girl and… What? Claim him like some half-crazed animal?

Well, it was tempting.

Killan snuffed the butt of the cigarette on the damp wood and flicked the end into the street, leaning just so against Arthur's side. He smelled so good and clean. The temptation was strong, constantly there, and Arthur knew he couldn't fight it forever.

Killian pulled from his arms and headed back inside, and Arthur watched him go. No one had to know. And when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

He pushed the door shut with his foot, unaware that he'd even followed so closely, and dragged Killian in for another kiss, the fabric of his shirt bunching in his fists. Killian let out a little startled noise, but his gloved fingers wove into Arthur's loose blonde hair. He moaned, and Arthur pulled back from his lips, trailing kisses down his neck. Killian let out another soft noise, letting his head fall back.

"What are you… Arthur…"

"Hush," Arthur chided him, pulling the last three buttons on his shirt free and pushing it down his shoulders.

Killian pulled free, expression clouded with something altogether different. All their talk of mountain lions before made him think that maybe Killian was a wildcat of his own accord.

He certainly pounced like one. He grasped Arthur by the suspenders and dragged him back into a kiss, a hungry sort of groan rising in his chest.

"You hush, Arthur Morgan," he whispered, pushing him backward onto the bed, "You don't get to play games with me."

Despite Arthur's fumbling before with the buttons, Killian's hands were steady as stone, tossing Arthur's overshirt across the room. "I don't like being  _ under _ someone." He whispered, "You'd do well to remember that."

"O-of course, Killian. Sorry." Arthur murmured. He smoothed a hand over Killian's thigh, eyes trailing his body as Killian pulled free from his shirt. Though his hands were pale, Killian's chest and shoulders were mottled with the same cinnamon-colored freckles as his face, all a warm golden brown from the sun.

"Make no mistake, Arthur Morgan," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, "No one is taking anything from me again. Not even you."

He dove in, kisses along Arthur's neck and shoulders, teeth digging into the skin just above where his collar would fall, worrying a bruise into the skin. The others would see, and they would know. And Arthur? Arthur didn't care.

Try as he might, he didn't remember much between that and Killian's mouth on his cock. He was sure that the blond had maybe kissed down his chest, probably asked what he wanted, to which Arthur had probably clumsily and stupidly responded with "you." 

"Have you ever done this before?" Killian murmured, pulling back from his cock long enough to press a few kisses to Arthur's thigh, "Or is this all new for you?"

"I'm no one trick pony, Killian O'Malley." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"With a boy?" Killian sounded surprised.

"There's a lot about me you don't know, boy. Come here." And Killian obeyed, letting Arthur mark his neck with a few bites of his own. Arthur knew, in that moment, while Killian sighed above him, that he'd gotten himself in too deep.

But he also knew he didn't care.

* * *

"Charles. Wake up." He jolted awake, pushing himself upright and regretting it when his back flared with pain in protest.

"... Wiley? What time is it?"

"I d-dunno. I need help." Charles rubbed his bleary eyes and Wiley's pale face swam into his vision. He held out his hand and Charles took it. His fingers were warm and slick with something, and when Charles looked down at his palm, it was red.

"Wiley?"

"I didn't know where to go." His voice shook, and Charles saw the source of the blood. Red flowered from a wound in Wiley's shoulder. A lot of red.

Wiley swayed and Charles lunged to catch him before he fell.

"What happened?! Wiley?!"

"Got into an altercation w-with some of my dad's men. Lucky shot, that's all."

Charles helped him to a seat, "Here. Take your shirt off. Let me look. If the bullet's still in there we gotta get it out." Charles helped him out of his overshirt, wincing when Wiley let out the barest of whimpers. "It's gonna be okay. Javier, bring the boy some whiskey."

Wiley rolled his eyes and swallowed hard, letting Charles move his injured arm. "Am I gonna make it?" He chuckled.

"You'll be fine… Looks like the bullet missed all the important parts." Javier brought him the bottle of whiskey and Wiley took a swig, grimacing.

"Alright. Have fun diggin' in my shoulder." He murmured, grasping the neck of the bottle and taking another swig. Charles pulled his knife from his belt and sighed.

"Alright. Deep breath." He whispered. Wiley nodded once and Charles got to work. 

It only took a few minutes to pull the bullet free, and Wiley only winced. "There. Got it. Here." Charles pressed his hand to the wound, "Hey. Look at me. You're gonna be okay."

"Bet I'm gonna die. It'd be fitting. Some little shot in the shoulder killin' me." He slumped against the table, and Charles sighed.

"If anything is gonna kill you, it'll be that damned attitude." Still yet, Charles ran a hand through his hair gently. "You'll be okay."

He didn't realize how it looked. Or he didn't care. Charles wasn't sure. Wiley managed a weak smile and Charles patched him up with a scrap of cloth and helped him to his bed roll. "Rest… you'll feel better soon."

"They weren't far from here. I think they were looking for me." Wiley murmured, as Charles played with his hair again, "or Zeke, one."

"I'll make sure Dutch knows… You'll be okay, Wiley. Rest now."

Once he was sure Wiley would lie still, Charles stood to find Dutch. As he rounded his tent, he paused. Two voices, both gruff. Just on the other side of the tent. He peeked around the corner.

Micah Bell stood with his back to Charles at Pearson's wagon, chatting with Dutch in a low voice. He looked clean and well-fed, which made no sense if he'd just escaped jail. He hung back, but Micah walked away, and Charles saw Dutch chew worriedly on the end of a cigar, before walking down toward the woods and vanishing into the trees.

* * *

Killian could hardly believe what he'd just done.

He knew it had just happened, of course. It was hard to ignore. If his past self, four years ago, knew what he'd just done, he wasn't so sure the poor kid wouldn't have died of a heart attack.

He rested his head back on Arthur's shoulder, pressing the cigarette to his lips.

"Was that anything like that last boy you slept with?" He asked softly. Arthur shook his head, taking a drag off the cigarette.

"No." He said, "Albert is… much less in charge."

"Oh, he has a name?" Killian teased, "How'd you meet Albert?"

"He was takin' pictures of animals out by Baird's Crossing. Got his bag stole by a coyote. You'd like him. We… I dunno. We were a thing for a while. But we're two different kinds of nomad. Still. He writes sometimes." Killian smiled gently and took his own drag off the cigarette.

"He sounds sweet. He sounds good. You sure you wanna switch from a good boy in a bowtie and boater to an arsehole like me?"

"Hey. Just because you're different from him doesn't mean he's better than you. Two different worlds. He's soft. You're… You're different." Killian sighed gently.

"Yeah. Different." He murmured, "I'd like to meet him sometime, you know. You talk about him like you miss him."

"Guess I do," Arthur admitted. "He's sweet… Makes me feel normal." Killian smiled faintly and stroked Arthur's hair back from his face. If one of them had shaggy hair now, it was him. In the four months that Killian had been back, he didn't think he'd seen Arthur trim his hair once. It was touching his shoulders now, and Killian sighed gently.

"Arthur I l--" he stopped, swallowing harshly, "I had fun…"

"... Me too." and for a moment, all was well


	5. Nightshade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long (2+ months?) And is kind of short. I'm still writing this! The holidays and work have been a doozy. This is nowhere as clean or lengthy as I wish it was, but I wanted to make sure I got something out so everyone knew I wasn't dead.

Two weeks. Two whole weeks had passed since that night in Valentine. 

They didn't bother hiding it.

Killian was completely in love, of course. There was no hiding his total love of Arthur. Even Hosea seemed to notice the change, and chuckled whenever the pair stole their brief moments together. Arthur would pull Killian into his lap around the fire, as the day was winding down. When Javier played a song they all knew, they would sing and hang off each other. 

And Arthur…

The last time Arthur had been this happy, Isaac and Eliza had still been alive.

Micah had nothing but malice to spit about it. More than once he'd muttered a sour phrase that made Killian's carefree grin fade. 

Hosea wanted nothing more than to rip that stupid walrus mustache off Micah's face. Those were his boys. He and Dutch had all but raised Arthur and Killian and John. Dutch might have seen it as 'boys being boys' but Hosea had always been a papa bear to cross.

They'd picked Arthur and Killian up around the same time, out in California. Killian's mother had abandoned the boy with relatives who didn't want him at 5. Arthur had been 13, both his parents dead, and even then Hosea had known. Killian had always looked at Arthur like some little lovestruck fool.

He'd always been a soft kid, but time and pain had hardened him. Now Hosea wasn't too sure that the boy was that same lost little irish kid from San Francisco at all. If not for the way he looked to Arthur like he'd hung the sun, moon, and all the stars, Hosea would have been afraid the boy had snapped.

"Killian. Come on. Let's go fishing," Hosea called. Killian perked up instantly, pecked Arthur's cheek and stood. It was a bright, clear morning.

"Of course, Da. I love fishin'." He pulled himself up into his saddle while Hosea paused to brush Silver Dollar's coat clean, "We got a good thing here at this camp. Jack likes it up here, and the air is nice and clean."

"It's a good piece of land. Lots of beauty out here… not too far from the plains, good river, town not far. Might make a home of it yet. The Van Der Linde stead."

"I doubt it. Some of us are too much of nomads to build a home," Killian chuckled, nudging his horse toward the path as Hosea climbed onto his own mount. it was a short ride down to the river, and Killian seemed in good spirits the entire time, if not a little quiet and contemplative. Once they were down at the water, posted up on the bank and settled in for a few relaxing hours, Hosea cleared his throat.

"So. You and Arthur," he saw Killian smile out of the corner of his eye. He was still a young buck. Some kind of folk hero-looking boy, blonde waves of hair and strong arms. Proud was an understatement.

"Yeah. I can hardly believe it myself. Arthur's… he's different now."

"What do you mean?" Hosea asked. The reel clicked as he adjusted his hook in the stream, and Killian sighed softly.

"I… He… He used to be… Happier. Or better, anyway. I don't know, Da. There's somethin' dark in him now. I want to help. But I might not be able to."

Hosea was quiet, watching Killian reel in the fish he'd managed to hook. He was tempted to urge him to be careful of the line, or not to reel to fast, or to-- but he stopped himself. He'd taught Killian to read and write and fish just the same as he did Arthur and Javier and he would teach Jack one day. And when Killian landed a fat Largemouth, he smiled and clapped his shoulder. He tossed the fish into the bucket Hosea had been clever enough to stash and baited the hook again, sending it sailing neatly into the water.

"You'll do fine, son," Hosea said finally, "Arthur's had a hard run of it these four years. But you'll bring him back in. You have a way with people."

"Maybe…" Killian was silent for a few minutes, "What about you and Dutch?"

"What do you mean?" Hosea asked.

"Arthur told me that for a while, you two were…" he trailed off and Hosea chuckled.

"Ah. Well, we were. Still are, sometimes. Other times he's more like an annoying roommate. When you boys were just kids, we tried to keep that hidden. But I… I guess I always knew you would understand. You always had this little twinkle in your eye when you looked at Arthur."

"Until Reverend Swanson came along. We were never a family bound to religion, but he always made everyone kinda nervous." Killian brushed a lock of hair back behind his ear, and Hosea chuckled a little.

"Reverend Swanson's the last bastard to preach about morality. I love Dutch as much as you love Arthur and Swanson loves hooch. No difference there." 

Killian sighed gently and shook his head.

"Da… if I tell you something, do you swear not to tell Dutch?" The seriousness in his tone cut the laugh in Hosea's throat.

"... of course. What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"

"I might be. When… When Arthur found me, I… I was on my way to get Wiley. To get that money out of Blackwater. I found where it was, and he… We… We were gonna go get it. Right out from under everyone's nose. But then I found everyone and now Wiley's here. I don't think anyone's after that money anymore. Arthur knows. He's real mad about it, even now."

Hosea breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought you were in some kind of trouble son. That's nothing to worry about." He gently squeezed Killian's shoulder, "Money can't hold a family together."

"No," Killian whispered, "But it can tear a family apart."

On the path behind them, two men rode past. Something at the base of Hosea's neck pricked, but he couldn't place the feeling. Then a fish took the bait, and the feeling was gone as soon as it had come.

Killian hooked three more fish before Hosea got a second, and he shook his head, exasperated. So the student had surpassed the master.

"What kind of bait do you use?" He asked.

"Crickets and cheese. Just hook the very end of the cricket's ass. Twitches around and gets the fish's attention, if the smell of the cheese don't first."

"Genius," He murmured, "Fish can smell?"

"I dunno. Some feller up near Strawberry told me that once. It seems to work." Killian checked his pocket watch and balked.

"Damn. We been out here two hours already."

"We both needed a break." Hosea said, "let's give it a few more minutes. I'm not ready to see Micah Bell's stupid face just yet."

"You and me both, Da." He helped Hosea bait the hook the same way he did-- and the irony of the boy teaching him something about fishing instead of the other way around wasn't lost on the old man-- and he cast out again.

"You sure are quite the talented boy."

"Please. I can fish and ride a horse, but I'm a shite marksman and I lose my cool too quick."

"You're a good little spy though. And you could convince a man they sky's red."

"Charisma isn't a talent, it's an inborn trait," Killian chortled a little, "but I'll admit, I am a good little spy." 

The wind changed, and Hosea smelled burning leaves and brush. At first he ignored it, thinking some fool was burning a fallen tree. They did that, out here. Burned fallen trees. And grass. And shrubs. They were fools, after all.

"Da." Hosea looked up, and followed Killian's gaze up to the plateau above the river.

Smoke was rising from the trees. Not the small trickle of smoke from a bonfire, but a black cloud, rising in massive plumes across the sky. They both stood, rooted, eyes locked on the surreal image before a surge of recognition and fear broke the disbelief.

"Camp." Hosea breathed, reeling his hook back in and throwing the fishing rod into his bag. Killian grabbed the bucket of fish and put the spurs to the flanks of his overo horse, bolting up the trail back toward home.

Blood roared in Hosea's ears, drowning out the sound of Silver Dollar's hooves on the dirt. A pair of deer fled from the flames, grunting and howling in terror.

The entire back half of the camp was engulfed in flames. Uncle, the girls, and Jack had gotten out, along with most of the horses, but a fair few of the others were unaccounted for.

"Arthur!" Killian called. Javier stumbled through the inferno, singed but unhurt.

"John got down the other side. Dutch left for Valentine this morning. Arthur's pinned. I can't get to him." Javier's voice was dejected, disbelieving. The fire crept closer.

"Da. Get everyone out. It'll burn the whole cut. I'm gonna get Arthur."

"What? No! Killian, are you insane?!" But Killian had already bolted through the fire, and he knew he was right.

"Everyone, scatter. Meet at Dewberry Creek. We have to get out of here."

"Grampa Hosea, I saw two men--"

"We'll talk later Jack. We'll figure this out. Come on." And leaving an uncertain number of his family to an uncertain fate tore at him, but it was all Hosea could do.

* * *

Killian could tell he'd burned his arm already. It blazed with pain, near-unbearable, but it didn't matter now. He found Arthur with his leg pinned beneath one of the wagons, and he knew he would be lucky to get him out. But the entire ring of trees surrounding the overlook was beginning to catch. Two weeks without rain made the wood and grass excellent tinder.

"I'm gonna lift it, you pull your leg free,"

"Killian?" 

"Just do it, okay?!" He shouldered under the floor of the wagon and, with every remaining ounce of his strength, lifted. Whether through a stroke of luck, a miracle, or simply the grace of an adrenaline rush, Killian was able to lift it just enough that Arthur could pull his leg free. He could see it was burned and twisted, but unbroken and Killian helped him toward… what?

The only opening was the cliff face. 

"Killian… It's alright." Entire flaming limbs of the trees were coming down, engulfing tents and wagons and people's belongings. Lives thoroughly broken now. His arm was throbbing. His head was spinning. Sweat streamed down his back as the fire closed in rapidly. His heart was in his throat and the blood in his ears roared. Dutch's gramophone let out a few notes as the record left on it caught and turned and he knew they had one window to escape, and it was narrowing.

"Come on." He pushed Arthur toward the cliffside. It was so far down. They could die, but they had a chance to survive, and anything was better than burning.

He jumped.

Arthur followed.

* * *

He grinned, watching black smoke stain the sky, shielding his grey eyes against the setting sun. He drove his spurs into his horse's flanks, bolting down the path back toward the plains, back toward camp. His uncle was watching the same smoke rise just past the train tracks, hands on his hips.

"It's done," he grinned. His uncle glanced toward him, only grunting in response.

"They scattered like roaches."

"Makes them easier to pick off." His uncle snorted, turning back to face the smoke as it billowed from the trees. For a moment he was silent. Then:

"I'm proud of you Ambrose. Keep it up."

Ambrose O'Driscoll smiled, his grin somehow shark-like and menacing.

Seamus O'Driscoll's son had a ferocity to him, a viciousness that even Colm couldn't hope to match. He had his mother's wild, dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, but they were grey like his father. He was a mix of Li Ming's Chinese heritage and Seamus' Celtic stock, and somehow, a rattlesnake's bite, an alligator's tenacity, a knife's blade. And he hated one person, and one person only.

Wiley, his cousin, six days older than him. Once, when they were children, he'd tried to strangle Wiley behind a woodshed in some shitty little Wyoming town. Zeke had pulled him off and threw him into the mud and screamed at him for it. His excuse?

He'd wanted to see what color Wiley's face would turn.

Satisfied with his uncle's praise, he turned on his heel to find his mother's wagon. Li Ming was arguably the origin of the rattlesnake venom. Even before joining the gang, she'd been picking pockets and severing hamstrings in San Francisco. Whenever Ambrose asked, she claimed she never cared about Seamus, but wanted sex and a son of her own. Once she got what she wanted, she'd brushed Seamus aside.

Ambrose had loved his father, though. Watching Dutch Van Der Linde splatter his Daddy's brains against a wall all those years ago had broken some vital part of him. But what Ambrose lacked in love for other people, he made up for in his love of cats.

Li Ming sat with his favorite cat, a calico with green eyes named Bao, at the far end of the wagon's surprisingly-spacious floor. She graced her only child with a smile and passed the cat along to him, watching him light up with the cat in his arms.

"How was your day?" She asked. Ambrose gently stroked the bridge of the cat's nose.

"Good. We burned out the Van Der Lindes. I heard the Pinkertons are after them. They're gonna catch them. I know it."

"I hope so," she said gently. She passed Ambrose a plate of long-cold steamed buns and he tucked his knees underneath himself, letting Bao loose so he could eat, "And Wilder?"

"He's so useless I bet he walks right into them. Couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a map."

"Good. Maybe now, you can convince your uncle that you should be the one in charge of this gang, not either of his traitor sons."

Ambrose shrugged a shoulder and continued to eat, watching Bao play with a loose string.

"I'll get them, Mama. Don't worry."

"You'd best, Ambrose." 

He finished his dinner in silence, then kissed his mother's cheek as he left the wagon.

If Ambrose was honest, he had a lot more in common with Wiley than he would ever care to admit. Cats, of course, he loved. Freedom. Chocolate bars. Fresh bread.

And… one other thing.

He waited until Colm had tucked himself into his tent for the evening before he slipped across camp, ducking behind wagons and supply crates until he made his way to a patched tent with the lantern inside burning. 

"Andrew. It's me."

"Who else would it be?" The voice inside teased, "Come in." Ambrose grinned and slid inside. Andrew sat cross legged on the ground, cleaning a revolver with obsessive precision. Ambrose sat across from him, watching him work, and shamelessly admiring his bare arms and chest. 

"So what did my handsome little monster do today?" Andrew asked, taking a drag off a cigarette. Ambrose snatched it from his lips and took a drag of his own.

"Burned down a camp of Van Der Linde boys."

"Hell yeah," Andrew grinned, snapping the gun back together and tucking it into the holster again. He was all strong muscle and sinew and copper skin, and he prowled across the tent to Ambrose's side, taking the cigarette again and breathing in the smoke. His hands--twice the size of Ambrose's-- came up to cup his cheeks, a calloused thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Ambrose's eyes fell closed and he sighed, feeling all that cold venom and hate melt away.

"Kiss me," Ambrose sighed. Andrew obliged, pressing his lips to his love's.

"Of course…" he breathed. His mouth tasted like smoke and peppermint. And dirt.

His hands were calloused and warm, and Ambrose sighed gently.

"I need to go look for my cousins… Will you ride with me?"

"To the ends of the earth, darlin'. To the ends of the earth."

* * *

Arthur swam through a fog of unconsciousness for what felt like an eternity, the ghosts of hands on his face and neck and arms. Thick, wet  _ something  _ clung to his hair and cheek, and trying to open his eyes felt like a herculean task, so he kept them shut. At times all he could hear was a ringing, some low tritone he couldn't place. Other times he couldn't hear anything get all.

The next he knew, a cool hand was touching his forehead, dabbing an even cooler cloth against his skin. 

He pried his eyes open, but there was nothing but a blur of color at first. The pale ghost of a face drifted into view.

" _ Ugh." _ He grunted.

"Hey. How are you feelin'?" Killian's voice sounded frail, and Arthur managed the fainted ghost of a smile.

"You're alive," Arthur rasped.

"Because I landed on you and your fat arse," he teased. Arthur could pick up on the thick, tear-laden tone his voice took on. But despite it, the barest chuckle.

"Guess I ain't gettin' rid of you, huh? What happened?"

"What do you remember?" Killian gently parted his hair from--what Arthur assumed was--the wound at his temple. It throbbed and Killian gently pressed a kiss to the skin.

"Jumpin'. That's the last."

"Well, I landed on you. Thankfully we didn't break nothin'. But… you hit your head. I… I thought I killed you, Arthur." His vision started to clear, and he could see how pale Killian really was. 

"Are you okay?"

"I think so," he murmured, "Mostly just worried about you. Come on. See if you can stand. Your leg looks worse than it is, I think." Arthur obeyed, using Killian's shoulder to help him stand. Everything felt oddly weightless as he pulled himself to his feet, like he was floating in an endless sea. Killian helped him toward the horses--had they been there the whole time?-- and into Frost's saddle.

"Just hang on. I'll take you into town to make sure you're alright." And Arthur could only nod meekly before his head filled with fog once again.


	6. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This took a lot of work.

He wasn't sure he'd ever get the smell or taste of smoke out of his mind. The fire had taken nearly everything, except lives. It was what he'd wanted. Why he'd been careful. His hands were stained with ash, but at least no blood colored them.

Wiley's cigarette trembled with his fingers, sunlight glittering off the riverbank, the blanket around his shoulders soaking at the hem. His shoulder ached, too, and the scar from that fire all those years ago throbbed with the memory of the blaze.

The fire in the forest brought that fear back, the fear of an inferno. The stench of smoke and death.

"Wiley?"

He ignored Kieran, though not intentionally. His mind was far off, to the east. He couldn't be sure that the fire hadn't claimed lives, though he told himself it hadn't. He hadn't stayed behind to find out that night. He'd stolen a horse from a wagon and ran until he found a train to ride back west, where he had trailed along, following newspapers and messages and posters until he stumbled across his family once again.

"Wiley." A hand touched his shoulder, drawing him back to the present. 

"Sorry, I uh…"

"You okay? Y-you just don't seem right."

"I'm okay Kieran." He forced a smile out, but it felt painted on.

"You sure? You been r-real quiet since we got here…"

"I'm fine. Please." It came out harsher than he meant for it to, and Kieran pulled back, perhaps a touch wounded by the malice.

"Well… if you need anything, l-let me know." He nodded once and went back to his cigarette. A cool guest of wind carried over the river, and three ducks from the island in the midst of the water rose into the air, sailing over the trees and out of sight.

He wondered if he had seen it right, or if it was all in his head, how Ambrose had lit the trees. He'd been under the impression that his cousin would have died, being the brutish, bloodthirsty creature he was. He was sure he would have made a stupid decision, gotten shot, and that would have been it. But despite his distaste for him, Wiley couldn't bring himself to hate him. Like Wiley's mother, Ambrose's father had died brutally, as people so often did in the business of holdups and gunfire. He felt bad for him. But where Wiley had been sent away for who he loved, Ambrose's hatred had been allowed to fester and grow like gangrene.

Something struck the back of his boot, and Wiley shook himself from his reverie, glancing at the dirt to find a little red bottle cap still shivering with momentum among the dirt and rocks. As he raised his eyes to search for whoever had thrown it, another one sailed toward him and struck his leg.

"Come have a seat." Charles motioned him over to the table, where Javier was spinning a third bottle cap on its end. He obeyed, shambling toward the table with his blanket wrapped around him like a child.

"You alright?" Javier piped up. Wiley shrugged his good shoulder, sliding into a seat. 

"Just thinking." He lied.

"Yeah? What about?"

"None of your business, Javier." He managed some semblance of a smile, "How's that redhead from back in Saint Denis?"

"Tess n' me are still sweet on each other, if that's your question. I'm taking things slow with this one, and far as I know, she don't mind." 

"She's just right for you, Javier," Charles interjected. A touch of a smile turned the corner of his mouth up, "Cares about the same stuff you do."

"What about you, Charles? That girl from Valentine?" Javier flipped the bottle cap onto the table as he spoke, and Wiley blinked back surprise.

Well. Was it surprise? Indignation maybe, but probably not surprise. Charles was handsome and kind and intense. Of course he'd probably have women falling over themselves for him.

Charles glanced between Javier and Wiley, dark eyes clouded with something that the O'Driscoll couldn't place. He looked like he was about to say something, but wasn't sure how to say it. Wiley turned his attention to the grain of the table, picking at a dried-up smear of tomato, a cold lump of hurt dropping into his belly as though he'd just swallowed a stone.

"I'm… Not… Hm." That was the first time Wiley had ever heard Charles hesitate, but it didn't relieve the icy sensation in his stomach. Frustration--not with him, but with himself-- filled the space between his ribs and made the back of his neck grow hot. He'd been dwelling on a fantasy for months. There was no reason to think Charles would ever possibly feel the same way that he did. There was no way that his breath would catch the same way Wiley’s did when they accidentally touched. A few weeks ago, Charles had been showing him how to shoot a bow. His shoulder was still too weak to pull the string back, but Charles had closed his fingers around Wiley’s hand to show him how to properly hold it. Wiley saw stars before he was able to breathe again.

No. It wouldn’t make sense. They were friends, that was all. Besides. Wiley was supposed to still be sad over Danny.

"I'm taking… I'm taking a break from… from that side of things," Charles said finally, his voice wavering. He cleared his throat and Wiley caught Javier's confused eyes darting between them.

"Oh… Okay. Well. If you're looking for another girl, Tess has a sister."

"I don't want her sister, Javier. There's someone else I'm sweet on."

"Is it Tilly? Mary-Beth? Oh, Karen!"

"No. Javier--"

"Molly then?"

"No! Stop. Javier, it isn't that easy. And Tilly has Zeke!" Javier leaned back in his chair, thinking. He glanced between them again and straightened.

"Oh… Oh I get it now."

"What?" Charles snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You and Wiley are together… Hey, no judgements here."

"No. We aren't. We just…"

"Then what, Charles? Come on, man!"

"Okay! Fine. Fine! I do… Have… Feelings. For Wiley."

He felt the rock of dread slam into his heart, and Wiley swallowed hard. Javier smirked.

"I knew it. I knew it since he showed up." 

Wiley pushed himself up to his feet again, tripping over the blanket and fumbling toward his tent, pitched away from the rest of the camp.

"Hey! Wiley, what's wrong?"

"I need to think."

"Why? I thought it was what you wanted." He grasped Wiley's arm gently. Even through the blanket, his palm was warm, and Wiley swallowed hard.

"It is. I just don't want you to go saying that as an excuse."

"What? No, Wiley. I really do. Javier's right." He released Wiley's arm and cupped his cheek with a calloused hand.

"I wish you wouldn't do that." Wiley said gently, "I don't deserve you."

"Please. If anyone deserves the world, it's you." He brushed a wild dark curl of hair from Wiley's eyes, and for the first time in years, Wiley felt his heart skip a beat. Or two. Was this romance or a heart attack? He wasn't sure.

He realized he'd been holding his breath and let it all out in a shaky gust of air. This close he could see the unevenness of Charles' skin, the pale scar on his jaw and his brow. The strange rough smoothness of Charles' scarred hand closed around his own three-fingered one. Wiley watched him trace the angry scars there, where the flesh had knit together unevenly with crude sutures and a whiskey antiseptic. The ache was bone-deep there.

"Listen to me, Wiley. I mean everything I say. And I definitely, definitely mean this."

Wiley didn't exactly let him finish his sentence, but he got the gist. He brought his hands up to cup Charles's cheeks, dragging him down into a kiss. Wiley half-expected his lips to be rough like the rest of him, but they were soft, like the wild dark hair his fingers threaded through, or the arms around his waist. And he realized that if Charles ever let him go, he'd be lost.

"I never thought you'd say that about me." Wiley whispered. Charles smiled softly, a real smile, and it made Wiley melt. A smile just for him.

"You have got to be the best worst thing that has ever happened to this stupid little gang." Charles murmured, "and now you're all mine."

* * *

The call hadn’t been Killian’s to make, but he’d agreed to go anyway. Collecting money from a man who, by all accounts, seemed decent enough wasn’t exactly his favorite job on the planet. But he hadn’t brought in a cent since they’d set up camp here.

“These jobs are easy enough. Strauss is a slimy bastard, but he brings in his share,” Arthur was saying. Killian wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying, more focused on his own disappointment with himself rather than the logistics of the job.

“Hey now. I know this ain’t what you’d like to be doin’, but we need that money now more than ever.” Arthur’s cool eyes cut into him, and Killian huffed.

“It just seems wrong. Pickin’ on people who can’t pay back what they owe us? It seems wrong, that’s all.”

“I know. I wish it was fair too. But it’s not that easy. We need the money. Strauss’ business, as shady as it is, brings that in for us. I ain’t proud of it neither.”

Killian didn’t respond. If he was going to bring in money, he would do anything, bar none, besides intimidate the poor. The backwards Robin Hood act had taken its toll years ago. And now here he was, part of it.

“If it makes you nervous, then I’ll do the work. You can just hang back.”

“Alright, Arthur, enough actin’ like I’m a China doll. I’m fine. I’ll do whatever.” 

Killian was no saint--that went without saying. Seeing as only a few people knew he had tried to lift thousands of dollars out from under them in Blackwater, he was only slightly above extortion. But this just felt wrong. Downes seemed decent enough. Killian had seen him a few times collecting pocket change for the poor in Valentine before the fire. He'd stopped going out with his pamphlets and his jars a few days before.

The ranch was nice, a small plot of land not far from town. Killian hitched his horse by a small garden, taking in the farmhouse and barn. He'd passed it once or twice on the road, but hadn't really looked at it until now.

Thomas Downes stood within the little plot of garden, attempting to fix a fence. Killian could hear him wheezing from where he stood, and winced.

"Arthur please…"

"Come on. I'll handle this."

"Not likely." He pushed through the gate before Arthur, keeping a slight distance from Mr. Downes, "He's sick Arthur. Be kind."

"Thomas Downes? Seems like you owe a friend of mine some money." The man turned, and Killian couldn't help but wince. He was pale, eyes bloodshot, and he looked like he could drop at any moment. The Irishman took a step forward on instinct, though he didn't know why. Something just felt so, so wrong.

"I… I don't have anything to pay you back with, I'm afraid." Mr. Downes said. He looked fit to drop at any moment. Arthur snorted like a bull on the charge.

"That ain't no concern of mine. You owe us. We're here to collect."

"Arthur." Killian hissed.

"I can't make money out of nothing, Sir… you look like a good man, sir. Both of you do."

"We're not good men, Mr. Downes. We're here for your money." Arthur took a step forward and Killian grabbed his arm hard enough that his blunt nails bit little crescents through the fabric of Arthur's shirt and into his skin.

"You are. I can tell. He certainly seems to think you are. I have nothing to pay you with, sir." His words were punctuated with a thick cough, and Killian winced once again. 

"Sell this old farm then." Arthur barked out.

"And leave my family with nothing?" Downes countered.

"Ain't no damned concern of mine. You get us that money, Downes."

"I have no way to  _ get  _ that money. I've told you!" Arthur lunged forward and Killian shoved back with all his might. 

"Stop! Leave him be!" Downes sank to his knees in a violent coughing fit and Killian shoved Arthur's shoulder again, "Leave him alone! He's sick! What the fuck happened to you?" He reached out to help the man to his feet, but Thomas held up his hands and gently waved him away.

"You don't want what I have, son…" he shakily pulled himself to his feet and wobbled toward the farmhouse, and Killian rounded on Arthur. Never before had Arthur seen fury like that in anyone's eyes. Let alone Killian's.

"You're a damn fool, Arthur Morgan." He snarled.

"Killian--"

"He's sick. You were going to beat a sick man for a few fucking dollars? How much did he owe?!"

"He owed strauss and us five hundred dollars." Arthur swallowed and Killian fumbled in his pocket for a money clip. One that Arthur hadn't seen him use. From the thick stack of bills, Killian peeled off a wad of twenties. The stack seemed to barely diminish. Arthur tried to grab his wrist but Killian reared back and threw the bills in his face.

"Here! Give Strauss that! And if you so much as touch me again I'll feed you to the hogs."

"Don't act like you're so high and mighty!" Arthur snapped, " _ You  _ were plannin' to steal thousands from us."

"We talked about that! It weren't for me!"

"You still done it. You still had that plan!"

"You want rid of me so bad? Fine! I'll go!"

"I never said that!"

"Then what do you want from me?! I've done nothing to deserve this constant bullshit! I didn't take your precious money! Money! Al you fucking care about is the  ** _fucking money!_ ** " 

Arthur wanted to come back with teeth bared, but he stopped.

"Where did that other money come from then?" Killian rounded back on him then, a hand raised to strike, but he held back.

"Fine. Take that. Take all of it. Take whatever you want. I don't care. I don't care anymore. I couldn't care less if I wanted to." He dug the money clip out of his pocket and threw it into the mud, "Here I am letting people take shit from me again. I really am exactly what he said I was." He pulled himself into his horse's saddle and dug the spurs into the flanks, tearing off down the path and away.

Arthur kicked a clod of dirt and manure across the lawn, scooping up the money clip. It was shiny, and when he brushed the dirt of it, a name glinted through, engraved into the silver.

_ Cian O'Malley _

Killian's father's name stared up at him, accusatory, and a note folded into the center of the bills caught his eyes. 

A short letter, signed by his sister. Arthur felt the guilt settle in. The inheritance his father had left for him when he died. That was the money. He'd ferreted it away, probably since he came back.

"Shit."

* * *

His fingers played with the loose curls at the nape of her neck as she slept. His face was pressed into her shoulder, breathing in her scent. She was gorgeous. She was his.

She was in danger.

Zeke had gone into town with her. It has been a bad idea, in retrospect, since she wasn't allowed in a lot of the buildings simply because of her skin color, but Zeke felt bad leaving her at camp with Micah skulking around. Some hillbilly with less brain cells than teeth had groped her. Zeke had shot him. They had run. He wasn't sure if it had been the adrenaline or what, but as soon as they stumbled back into camp, they had descended upon each other. Her bare body in the light of the lamp had been the closest thing Zeke could call an angel. She always was beautiful. It was hardly the first time they'd made love. But something about the low lamplight, the way she had sighed his name...

The sun was high then. He gently nudged her awake and she groaned, but rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"Hey," she whispered, and she kissed him. It was different now. It felt more real. He loved her. 

The thought struck him like a train. But he loved her. Really. Truly.

"Hi," he cooed, tracing the planes of her cheek.

"Thanks again for last night," Tilly said gently, "Ain't never had nobody stand up for me before."

"I had to. That pig had no right to touch you. No one has any right to touch you without your permission." She smiled and rolled her eyes playfully, tracing the barely-visible scar under his blind eye. 

"There should be more men like you, Zeke O'Driscoll." 

"If every man was like me, you'd have found a better-looking one in no time." Tilly giggled, and he climbed out of the tiny little cot in his and Wiley's shared tent. She watched him wash his face and neck and change into clean clothes, smiling all the while.

"'Wiley didn't come in last night?" She asked.

"No. Haven't seen him since this morning. Dutch sent him, Javier and Charles out to scope out some stages." Tilly watched him finish dressing, and Zeke turned to her one last time.

"Don't go telling the other girls a bunch of stories now." He said, kissing her once more before disappearing through the flap.

* * *

Tilly lingered for a while after Zeke left, feeling her heart flutter in her chest as she stood to wash her own face. Her ribcage and throat were full and tight, and she scooped up her dirty clothes to skitter across camp to change.

"Hey Tilly! Where'd you get off to last night?" Mary-Beth cooed. Tilly laughed as she tied a yellow cravat at her throat.

"Oh… You know. Around," she muttered coyly. Karen grinned.

"She and Zeke got frisky again last night. Don't pretend you don't know," she said, leaning on her gun.

"I was giving her a chance to tell us the details, Karen." Mary-Beth sneered. Tilly rolled her eyes but couldn't wipe away the smile.

"Yeah. I… I think I love him."

"Usually you figure that part out before you start sleeping with him," Karen tittered, "and that time is long past, sister."

It was Tilly's turn to roll her eyes, but before she could say anything, she spotted him.

A lawman. No mistaking it. Her heart threatened to stop in her throat, and she stood quickly.

"Dutch?" She called. The lawman stopped just outside the ring of tents, and Tilly swallowed harshly. Already, she was planning an escape. Or an attack. She didn't know exactly what was about to happen, but she could sense the lawman scanning the camp for her. She knew. Zeke was by the fire and he glanced between her and the newcomer while she tried to hide behind the wagon.

She heard Dutch come out, puffed up as if to make himself look larger, and ask what the lawman had come for.

"Lookin' for a little black girl. 'Bout 20, 22. Last seen with a white feller in Rhodes. There was a scuffle. Just wanna ask her a few questions."

"We ain't got no one here by that description, sir." Dutch said. Tilly shrank against the wagon wheel.

"That's too bad… If you see her poking about, you let us know."

"All due respect, sir, you can poke yourself out of my camp." She watched under the belly of the cart as Zeke slowly lifted a throwing knife from his boot. Their eyes locked and she shook her head, and Zeke stopped, tucking the knife back. No use shedding blood so soon. She could sense the fear in Zeke's eyes. Briefly, she felt like she was about to throw up, but the wave passed as quickly as it came.

"We don't take too kindly to the mixing of races around here, sir." Tilly wanted to scream, but she bit her tongue, creeping around the other side of the wagon to watch the lawman climb onto his horse and trotting back up the path. From her vantage, she could see Lenny, anger practically rolling off of him. As soon as the lawman was out of sight and earshot, she crept out from behind the wagon and to Zeke's side.

"You're a fool, Zeke," she whispered.

"I thought he would find you. I got worried." He smoothed his hands over her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her lips, checking her over as if to see if the lawman had somehow touched her. His hands lingered at her waist, and she sighed gently.

"You keep an eye out, okay? Be safe on whatever job you're off doing."

"Yes Ma'am." He smiled faintly, "I love you, Tilly Jackson."

She pressed her forehead to his, smiling faintly.

"I love you too, Zeke."

* * *

The next morning, before Zeke got back from Emerald Ranch, Tilly was ill.

It had happened a few times since coming to Clemens Point, but it was almost every morning by that point. She considered herself lucky that she hadn't vomited all over Zeke the day before. 

"Tilly, you should really go to the doctor…" Mary-Beth chided. She was busily scrubbing a spot on one of Tilly's blouses to get the stain out.

"I'd have to go all the way to Saint Denis. I don't wanna go all that way alone." She mumbled, splashing cool water from the river on her face.

"Have Zeke go with you. They're pretty progressive out that way." Karen muttered, "But we all know the truth anyway."

"What?" She snapped. Karen and Mary-Beth shared a glance, and Karen giggled.

"You and Zeke have been at it off and on since June. Come on. We all know what's going on, Till." She grinned. Tilly felt heat rise to her cheeks.

"Then what?" She growled.

Mary-Beth sighed gently, "Tilly… When was the last time you bled?" 

She frowned. She hadn't really thought of it before. But after thinking back…

"Oh god. Zeke?" He looked up from his coffee.

"Yes?"

"I need you to come with me… something is wrong."

"Of course, honey." He tossed the rest of his coffee back and went to saddle up his horse, and Mary-Beth squeezed Tilly's hand.

"Hey. We're here no matter what."

* * *

She didn't typically keep good track of things like that, but no matter how she counted, Tilly knew that Mary-Beth and Karen were right. She just needed a second opinion.

She knew the second opinion would be a death knell. She wasn't ready for this. But she had picked the hem of her handkerchief loose and Zeke's hand closed over hers in the waiting room of the doctor's office. 

"Hey. It's going to be okay. No matter what he says." She had filled him in on the ride to town, and he seemed nervous but excited at the same time. She wondered if he would have the same nervous excitement the entire time.

Tilly thought back briefly to her 18th birthday, spent in bed crying herself to sleep over another baby, one that she lost before it had even been given a name.

"Miss Jackson?" Tilly stood and took Zeke's hand, following the receptionist through the door and into a sterile-looking room. Shelves of tonics and tinctures littered the walls. An uncomfortable-looking chair was off to the side, and Tilly swallowed as she sat in it. Zeke took a chair by the window.

"Doctor Rice will be with you shortly." The woman said, smiling warmly, "If you need anything, just ask."

"Is he a kind doctor, Miss?" Tilly asked. The receptionist chuckled.

"Doctor Rice is a woman… and she's very good at what she does."

"A woman doctor?" Zeke lit up, "Lord, maybe things really are lookin' up for our country." Tilly managed a small smile. Zeke was the best of men, truly. When she had voiced her fears on the ride to the city, he'd smiled and shook his head and kept chuckling  _ I'm a daddy. _

It was a short wait for Doctor Rice. When she came in, Tilly felt her heart leap into her throat. They made idle chat, though Tilly's ears were ringing so loudly that she couldn't focus on the conversation. 

"Now. What brings you here, Miss Jackson?" Tilly glanced between the doctor's kind green eyes and Zeke's face across the room.

"I… Well… I've been sick recently. Only early in the day though. By afternoon I'm a lot better… I didn't think much of it, but one of my friends suggested that I… I come in." Doctor Rice nodded, making a mental note of all that she said.

"Are you and this fine gentleman 'acquainted'?"

"Um… Yes. A… A few times." Heat crept up to her cheeks, and Doctor Rice smiled.

"No need to be embarrassed here, Miss Jackson. I only want the best for you." She asked a few more questions, jotting a few notes down on a slip of paper and she smiled all the while. 

"It sounds like you already know why you're feeling so sick, Miss Jackson. I'd start picking out baby shoes." Tilly's heart jumped into her throat and she turned her panicked gaze to Zeke, worried he would have changed his mind, but he just beamed.

"See Tilly? It's gonna be okay. How much do we owe you Doc?"

"She already knew. I just agreed with her. I won't charge you for an agreement." Doctor Rice smiled and wrote down a prescription for something for the nausea and showed them back out to the lobby.

"If you have any questions, you know where to find me." 

All of this left Tilly bewildered. A mother. She was actually going to be a mother. She had thought (perhaps foolishly) that after losing her first child, she couldn't have another. As if being a mother was something only reserved for those who were worthy.

Zeke swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

"A baby. You and me. We're havin' a baby, Tilly Jackson!" And even she had to laugh. He was so excited. Why couldn't she be that happy too? A few people on the opposite corner of the street stared, but one stranger--a white man--clapped Zeke on the shoulder in congratulations.

For a brief moment, the future didn't seem so dark.

"I love you, Zeke," she murmured, clinging to him. Zeke spun her around once in the street, giggling like a schoolboy, and then helped her into the saddle.

Hosea was thrilled. He loved babies, after all. In another time, he would have been an amazing father and grandfather, but he had to settle for being some kind of uncle. Dutch feigned distaste but she could tell he was excited too. Jack had always wanted someone to play with, after all. Charles pulled Tilly into a bear hug when she told him, the big brother she had always wanted. Even Kieran stuttered out congratulations. No one had anything sour to say.

Maybe things were starting to look up.


	7. Gale Song

_ The past 48 hours were a blur, snapshots of moments being all he could really remember. _

_ He remembered racing down the path. He remembered being angry. The fight still stuck out. _

_ He remembered two black horses streaking up on either side of him. Grey eyes and two gold teeth. _

_ Then cold water, a splitting headache, his hands bound behind his back. _

_ Then Colm O'Driscoll. Then darkness. Nothing. _

* * *

The cellar of the old cabin was cold, damp, and foreboding. His ears rang and his vision swam, even in the darkness. Pain radiated from the base of his skull, radiating through his neck and shoulders. He felt himself falling back into darkness...

More cold water. It jerked him from the fog and he gasped for air. Even then, he could see the water that washed from the ends of his hair were rusty red with blood and dirt.

"Rise and shine, cowboy," the voice was a sneer. Killian raised his eyes to meet those of his captor. Despite the clear influence of Asian features, Killian spotted some similarities that reminded him of Wiley. When he smirked, Killian could see the glint of two gold teeth, crafted to look like fangs. In the light of the lantern, Killian spotted a crimson snake emblazoned on his holster. His knife's hilt too. His boots were even embroidered with pit vipers. Snakes. How fitting. Killian took his eyes off the searing image of the rattlesnake on his holster to meet cool grey eyes that seemed as frightened as they were enraged.

"Where am I?"

"Far from home, I'll say that, Van Der Linde." The man rested his foot on a crate near the chair they'd tied him to. Killian shook his head once, pain flaring from the base of his skull.

"No? That's real funny, 'cause I figure I'd seen you runnin' with them before. Remember when you was runnin’ with us?" Killian just glared up at him, the blood-tinged water streaming into his eyes. The O'Driscoll snarled. "I think you got a staring problem, boy."

"You're half my age, lad. Ain't no boy to you." That earned him a firm strike to the mouth. The shock of pain sparked dim anger in his belly.

"You'll do well to remember who you're talking to,  _ boy. _ " Extra malice tinted the word this time, "Ambrose O'Driscoll. You know me. And you're going to tell me where to find your people, even if I have to cut it out of you."

"Ambrose," the voice was new, coming from somewhere in the dark.

"Andrew," Ambrose mocked, "How can I help you?"

"Colm wants this one alive. God knows why."

"Never said I would kill him. But I'll make him wish I had." Killian's head dropped, and he felt another wave of unconsciousness threaten to wash over him. Ambrose grabbed him by the jaw and snarled, "I'll make him wish he was never born." The words sounded muffled as though through glass.

"Ambrose." The voice was firm. Andrew gently grasped Ambrose's wrist, "I know you want justice for your daddy, but he didn't do that. Save the venom for people who need biting, dear."

Ambrose fell silent, but pulled his arm away.

"You need to be careful. If he finds out… You know what will happen." Killian tried to keep listening, but his vision doubled and faded and the ringing in his ears blocked out the rest of their conversation.

* * *

When he next awoke, it was dark. He lifted his head and groaned, and a light flared to life in the corner of the cellar. He groaned again, but instead of Ambrose or Andrew, it was Colm.

"Was starting to wonder when you'd come to. You saw my nephew, I see." Killian grunted, "Aw now. Is that any way to greet your old boss?" his head lolled back to fix Colm with a glare.

"Water," he rasped. Colm leisurely lit a cigarette and plucked up a canteen, letting him take a sip of water before taking it back.

"You're very lucky that I'm a patient man."

"When have you ever had patience?" Killian hissed. Colm took a step closer.

"Come back to a real gang, Killy. You and I both know those Van Der Lindes are as worthless as they are foolish."

"No chance. I saw what you did that day. I don't have any business workin’ for you anymore."

"That's not what you said when your pockets was full to the brim with money."

"You murdered a man who loved your son."

"That was to teach the boy a lesson."

"What lesson does that teach?!" Colm lashed out, a ring-laden fist making contact with his jaw. Killian felt at least two teeth break and he spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt.

"Defiance is met with violence."

"He loved him. He loved him, and you murdered him. Your son will never love you. Neither of them will. You break and destroy and kill everything you touch. You're poison, Colm O'Driscoll." Colm snarled in response, fist closing around Killian's throat. Colm struck him two more times in the face, and he squirmed in the chair, but escape was next to impossible.

"You'll never see him again. Once we find your little gang, I'm going to gut Arthur in front of you, you useless sack of shit. I'll make you watch. And I'll make you lick his blood off the dirt. You are worthless, you little pig. You are  _ less  _ than worthless." Killian's vision went dark at the edges and he was sure Colm would kill him. Was so sure his body would be left to rot in a ditch.

But he let go, and Killian choked on air and spit. 

"And when you're done, I'll blow your head off. And I will not. Hesitate." Killian heard the waver in his voice even then.

"You're scared, Colm," Killian choked, "But who are you scared of?"

Colm's only reply was a sharp uppercut to Killian's gut, winding him and sending more pain flowering from his head. Colm left then, letting the cellar door slam behind him as Killian choked on his own breath.

* * *

"You think he's alright?" Wiley asked, sipping from a bottle of whiskey. Charles looked up from his gun, cracking the top off an ampoule of gun oil to clean it.

"I think so. Killian's a tough guy."

"I still think he would have come for his stuff…" 

"I don't know. From what Arthur said, it was a big fight. Maybe he cut his losses." 

"Maybe." Wiley sighed, taking another swig and turning toward the fire. In the dim orange glow, Charles watched him, smiling. Wiley caught the grin and turned back to face him.

"What?"

"What do you mean what?" 

"You're staring at me." Charles chuckled and shrugged a shoulder as he finished cleaning the gun.

"Just admiring the view." He said, snagging the bottle from his hand and taking a drink himself.

"Stop. Three days in and you're absolutely hopeless." But Wiley was smiling too, and he took Charles' hand across the table. Despite his soft appearance, Wiley's hands were worn and calloused. Charles subconsciously trailed his thumb over the puckered scar where his fingers should have been.

"Maybe I am. But I'll take it. You did good with that stage by the way!"

"Born and raised sharpshooter, baby." 

"Right, but… you shot the horses free… without shooting the horses."

"They didn't do anything wrong, Charles. They're horses." But Wiley giggled, and Charles knew that he was playing.

"What I'm trying to say is, you did well. How's your shoulder feeling?" Wiley shrugged.

"Alright. Kind of tender still. But it's healing pretty well, so I'll count it as a win." Charles just smiled, resting his chin on his fist, and sighed gently.

Arthur trudged past and Wiley sighed.

"Arthur he's comin' back."

"It's been two days. Boy ain't got it in him to hold a grudge that long." Dutch called.

Arthur grumbled, "I fucked up and he left. I won't get a chance to apologize 'cause I'm a dumbass. I won't get the chance to see him again."

"But you made up for it. You paid the debt. He'll come back around Arthur." Charles said. 

"How do you know? You and him ain't been together long enough to know what the fuck a fight is even like." Arthur barked. Wiley pushed back from the table, fury alight in his green eyes. Charles touched his hand across the table.

"Easy now." He chided gently. Neither Wiley nor Arthur backed down, despite a near-foot-tall difference between them. Charles was sure Wiley would win that fight if it came to it.

"Um… Y-y'all?" Kieran's voice wavered over the evening din, "Ain't that K-Killy's horse?" The trio at the table, Zeke and Tilly, even Micah started and looked toward the treeline. The Paint horse was still spooked, but had made his way home unscathed. His blue eyes rolled and he churned the earth beneath his hooves, and Kieran set to calming him instinctively.

"Blood on the saddle." He called once the Paint had calmed down, "a-and he's sweatin' up a storm. Probably been runnin' s-since you last seen Killian."

Charles stood immediately, knocking back the bench.

"We'll find him, Arthur. Kieran, give that poor horse a rest. Arthur. Wiley. With me. When you last saw him, where were you?"

"O-out by the Downes farm… Outside the old camp." Arthur looked pale and shaken.

"Lot of ground to cover. We can find him though. Just keep your head up."

* * *

_ "You are only worth what people can take, boy. Nothing you do will ever change that." Gaspard snarled, snuffing a cigar on the back of his hand. The Italian on the sofa across the table chuckled. _

_ "Oh, be easy on him, Gaspard. He is stupid, but he is handsome, no?" _

_ "He is a moron. A barely-literate Irish brat." Killian bit back a scream and stepped back, watching the exchange. The knife in his pocket was as heavy as a brick… _

* * *

He'd been left alone so long that he could see some of what was around him since his eyes had adjusted. He knew he was chained to a chair, arms tied behind him and ankles lashed to the legs of the chair. He could make out a broken table to his right and a pile of boxes to his left. Along the far wall he could just make out a broken wagon wheel and an ox yoke that looked older than he was. The other shapes seemed disjointed and he couldn't pick out what they were.

Trying to find the reason in the chaos around him kept him sane. He'd been left alone for more than a day now. Only a few tiny splinters of sunlight streamed into the cellar. It was quiet down there, save the occasional rustle of mice in the debris. And his empty belly. He hadn’t eaten since before they’d brought him in, and sometimes the hunger turned to churning. The door opened a few times for some nameless lackey to bring him water. Once, a Chinese woman came to him with something for his head. Li Ming, if he remembered. She had always been kind to him despite being a monster in all other aspects. She didn’t speak, but she looked at him with both pity and hatred.

When the door next opened it was Colm again. Killian clenched his jaw, but the pain from his broken teeth made it hard to do so for too long.

"Evenin' Killian," Colm grinned. He stank of beer and sweat and horse shit. They'd robbed something and he was gloating. Killian could feel it.

"Ah. You grace me with your presence, Colm--" Killian said his name right. Col-um. Colm sneered, "--what can a humble prisoner like me do for you?"

"You can start by biting your tongue," Colm struck him in the face again, the other side. He felt his molars cut into the inside of his cheek. "This could all be over Killy. Tell me where your boys are tucked away at, and I'll consider letting you go. You used to always tell us what they were up to. What happened?"

Killian spit a mouthful of blood into the dirt. The second such mouthful in less than a day.

"I learned right from wrong." Killian glanced up and saw the pair of youngsters that had brought him in. For a brief second, he considered telling Colm what he knew about them, but he stopped himself. He would be no better than Micah if he tattled. And he knew what would happen. He had seen it before.

"You could be bringing in so much more money with us Killian. You always did before."

"That was  _ before.  _ This is  _ now. _ " Colm sucked on his teeth and turned to Ambrose and Andrew.

"I'll let you get to work on this one then… We both know you'll get answers." And Colm stood and left. Killian turned his attention to Ambrose, trying to ignore the sudden wave of nausea that struck him. He hadn't eaten anything in three days now, and the gnawing hunger was becoming a physical pain. The boy with the vipers on his boots grinned and fished a knife out of his pocket.

"Alright then. Uncle says I don't have to go easy on you. So I ain't going easy." Killian felt the tip of the blade press beneath his jaw and he tried to lean away. "Where's your little gang, friend?"

"You really think this is worth your while? How long until your uncle finds out?" The knife bit deeper into his skin and Andrew unfolded his arms. Ambrose's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?" He asked, pressing the blade up. Killian craned his neck to avoid cutting himself deeper.

"Your cousin. Wiley. You know what happens when he finds out." The venomous sneer on Ambrose' face faded and he glanced between Killian and Andrew.

"The fuck did you do?"

"Nothing. But you know what will happen when he finds out. He ain't on your side, bud. Never was." Ambrose lashed out and struck him in the nose. Killian felt the bone and cartilage crunch beneath his fist.

"What did you tell him?!" Ambrose howled. Killian moaned and hung his head, blood spilling freely from his broken nose. Tears welled in his eyes and his vision swirled.

"Nothing," he rasped, "I don't want you two gettin' hurt." Ambrose tried to lash out again, but Andrew grabbed his wrists.

"Am, he's right. He didn't say anything to your uncle but he's got a point. It's only a matter of time before he finds out."

"He's just sayin' things, Andrew. You know he is."

"He ain't neither." Killian's eyes swam with tears but he could see now how much they meant to each other. Ambrose worried his lip and Andrew sighed softly.

"I was there the day Colm found out about Wiley and Danny. Watched the whole thing. It's why I left. Wiley kept a journal and Colm swiped it off of him. Danny begged for his life. Wiley begged too. And he still shot him. You were there too. Didn't you remember?"

"I do…" Ambrose looked at his knife and swallowed harshly, "I'll… I…” He swallowed again, “I’ll cut you free. I’ll tell my uncle your boys went back West.”

“You’re brave, Ambrose. We can help you two if you want.” Ambrose bent to cut the bindings and pressed something into Killian’s hands. His revolvers.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he said softly, “You only got twelve shots, so I’d make them count. You’re gonna need them when I lie to him.”

“You two just get out of here.” Ambrose nodded once, and Andrew swallowed harshly. The time had come for the unthinkable.

* * *

The change of heart surprised even Ambrose himself, but if he really thought on it, he knew that it had only been a matter of time. He wanted revenge for his father, but was that really worth sticking out an affiliation with a gang that would just as quickly kill him if they knew? 

“Uncle Colm! The went west!” He called.

“Didn’t take long.”

“Broke his nose. Squealed like a pig after that.”

“Good. You. Go finish our little squealing piglet then. Good on you, Ambrose. We ride tonight. Get what you need and get going. And Ambrose! You best not disappoint me.” Colm sneered at him, and Ambrose nodded once.

“Of course not, Uncle.” He glanced up at Andrew, who still looked bewildered, and motioned for them to go.

* * *

“Blood here,” Charles called, hopping off of Taima’s back. “Couple days old, but it ain’t rained so it’s still here to see. Two horses took off north, the other tracks belong to Oisín.”

“Any idea who?” Wiley asked. Blackjack whinnied uneasily and pawed at the dirt. Wiley tried to calm her, but she was clearly nervous.

“No. The two horses are smaller, probably Arabians, Morgans. Not as big as Killian’s horse, but probably faster. Looks like they boxed him in on either side. There’s a casing here too. Probably shot at him, clipped him maybe. He probably fell off. Looks like one of them circled around here.” 

“So we head north?” Arthur asked.

“Best bet,” Charles countered. He pulled himself back into the saddle and bolted down the path again. Wiley felt a lump in his throat. Two Arabians would fit Ambrose and Andrew’s horses. They had matching black dish-faced stallions, twins that they’d swiped from a farm up in Montana. He remembered those horses well. Maybe that was what Blackjack was smelling: the stallions.

“We gotta accept that it might have been my daddy’s men,” He called, “We ain’t ready to take on that many fellers.”

“Smoke on the ridge there. If it is, Wiley, we have to try,” Charles said. Wiley pulled Blackjack up next to Taima.

“It’s suicide if it is, Charles. My daddy don’t play games.”

“We still have to try. Killian would do the same for us.” And he was right. Wiley knew he was right. He was just nervous, and he knew that walking into this was going to be a fight.

Arthur called for them to stop, and Wiley soon saw why.

A dozen black horses galloped down the trail and westward, and Wiley could see from the head of the group that his father was leading them.

“O’Driscolls.” Arthur hissed.

“I knew it. It’s him.”

“We gotta hurry. Check that cabin up there. Charles and Wiley, you two take the front. I’ll sneak in the back. Maybe we can find out what they did with--.”

A muffled gunshot split the silence, and the trio shared a panicked glance before bolting up the path. Adrenaline spiked Wiley’s blood as he pulled his guns from his belt.

There were two O’Driscolls at the end of the trail. Blood roared in his ears, and he fired off four shots, two from each revolver. Four perfect flowers of blood bloomed from their chests, though one did crack off a shot that whirled eerily close to Wiley’s ear. 

“Get ready!”

Four more men burst from the cabin, and Wiley leveled his guns.

Two dropped in unison from Charles and Arthur’s guns. The third dropped when Wiley’s bullet tore through his skull. The fourth tackled Wiley into the dirt, slashing his hands with a knife and sending his guns skittering across the rocks. He drove the tiny pocket knife into his palm and Wiley cried out, but the next he knew, there was blood in his mouth and eyes that wasn’t his. Charles pulled him to his feet, wincing at the wound in his hand.

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know. Where’s Killian? Check the cellar.”

“Arthur’s going. Let me clean that.”

“Yeah. He must have taken just about everyone. Wonder what they were heading west for?” Charles shrugged a shoulder and poured whiskey over the wounds, then wrapped some torn cloth around his hands. Wiley smiled gently.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Arthur returned with Killian, bracing him against his shoulders. He looked like utter shit, but far be it from Wiley to say anything.

“Just drop me off in town. I’ll be fine,” Killian was saying.

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I ain’t goin’ back, Arthur. Take me to Valentine, I’ll patch myself up and go.”

“Nah, you’re gonna come home so Susan can have a look a’cha.”

“I don’t need her help, Arthur, fuck’s sake. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleedin’ everywhere, that arm’s infected, your nose is broke. You’re coming back home.” 

“Hey, Killian. At least let us patch you up. If you’re so dead-set on leaving, we’ll let you go in the morning,” Charles said, trying to diffuse the argument. He fixed Charles with a bloodshot gaze and sighed.

“Whatever you say. Just get me out of here.”

* * *

The ride home was quiet. Killian clearly still wasn’t over the argument, and refused to ride with Arthur, so he and Wiley were sharing a saddle. Blackjack didn’t particularly like having two men on her back, but she didn’t try to buck them off, and for Wiley, that was good enough. Killian swayed even at a canter, and Wiley worried that he would fall off, so he made ( _ forced _ ) Killian to hold onto his waist. He didn’t speak a word to anyone the entire ride, and Wiley was sure that he would take off as soon as Susan gave him the okay to do so. 

But he was alive. And okay, for the most part.

* * *

_ Killian smoothed his hands over his pantlegs to wipe the sweat off of his palms. _

_ “We don’t have to do this, you know.” Arthur said. _

_ “I do.” Killian said softly, “If I don’t, I’ll never get past it.” _

_ He was 19. Arthur was 26. They were on a train to New York City, where his mother and sisters and late father lived. Arthur had come with him because Killian asked. He didn’t know then what he knew now, but he felt excited to be out and about with his best friend.  _

_ When the train pulled into the station, Killian looked like he was about to vomit. _

_ “Let’s get this over with.” _

_ “You don’t gotta do this,” Arthur said again. _

_ “I do,” He replied again. They made their way up a street he didn’t remember the name of to grab a stage to the other side of a city that felt like a whole state. They sat across from each other in the coach. Ten years ago, Killian had still looked like a beanpole. But he was still Killian. He worried his lower lip, staring out the window. _

_ “She isn’t going to accept me,” _

_ “She don’t have to, Killian.” _

_ “I want her to. She’s my mother.” _

_ “Killian, you need to learn that nothing matters more than your opinion of you. You’re happy being yourself. She ain’t so much as seen you in 14 years, Killian. What’s her opinion matter?” _

_ The coach stopped in front of the small house in an expensive-looking neighborhood. Though they’d both dressed nicely for this, Arthur suddenly felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. Killian took a deep breath and stepped out of the coach, and Arthur followed. After a couple of steadying breaths, Killian took the three steps up to the porch and knocked on the door. _

_ The woman that answered reminded Arthur of Molly. She had flame-red hair and green eyes, but she was a little shorter, a bit more stout, and her dress was red instead of Molly’s usual green. Her eyes lit up with fury when she saw him. _

_ “You.” _

_ “Mammy, I--” _

_ “It’s been 14 years. I thought you were dead.” _

_ “Mammy, listen to me, I wanted to--” _

_ “Get out of here! No one wants you here.” Killian took a step backwards as she brandished a pistol from her bodice.  _

_ “What did I do, Mammy? I was five years old when you left me there. What the hell did I do to you?!” _

_ A girl a few years older than Killian stepped into the doorway. His sister, though if it was Sinead or Siobhan, Arthur wasn’t sure. _

_ “It’s your fault!” his mother crowed. _

_ “Mammy!” The girl cried, “Mammy, he didn’t do anything! It’s Killian, Mammy. It’s my brother!” _

_ “He killed her, Siobhan! He killed your sister!” _

_ “He was five! It was an accident!” _

_ Killian took another step back. He was reeling, and Arthur stepped between them. _

_ “Put the goddamn gun down, you crazy woman! Ain’t his fault, whatever happened!” He reached out for the gun and she pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed Arthur’s arm. _

_ Most of the rest was a blur until they climbed back on board the train. This one was fancier, with compartments, and they had one to themselves. Killian had been silent, bandaging the wound in Arthur’s arm but not speaking. The light bobbed and flickered as the train thundered down the tracks, making the shadows quiver.  _

_ “You been awful quiet,” Arthur murmured. _

_ “I don’t… I don’t remember what she was talking about. I… I don’t remember hurting anyone.” He watched the scenery race past the window, “I just want to know what happened.” _

_ “Maybe that isn’t how it happened at all. Maybe she needed someone to blame.” Arthur offered. Killian shrugged a shoulder, but said nothing. “Hey. Killy. I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always protect you.” _

* * *

Killian lay in the cot, staring at the ceiling of the tent.

“I… I didn’t mean to cause this big of a fight, Killian.” Arthur was saying. Killian sighed gently. His entire face was purple and black from bruises, and his nose and jaw were swollen. He looked as miserable as he probably felt.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he murmured, “I… I haven’t been… Truthful,” He pushed himself upright, wincing.

“You always have been,” Arthur countered, “What you could remember anyway.”

“This is… Kind of big. You might just want me gone anyway.” Arthur frowned and sat beside him. He opened his arms, and Killian sighed, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and he rubbed his back gently.

“What is it?” He asked softly.

“... I guess I’ve been… Projecting? I dunno, I ain’t smart, but… Before. A year before I left, I… I was working for Colm.”

Arthur tensed, and despite his best efforts, rage began to build in his throat. He heard Killian’s breath hitch and he stood, backing up.

“But not now! I swear, not anymore.” Arthur stood too, and Killian's eyes grew wide, and that fear snuffed all the anger that had billowed. He watched as Killy fumbled for a knife, but Arthur grasped his wrist and pulled it from his fingers, and Killian let out a tiny, panicked sob as he tried to pull free.

Arthur tugged him into his arms. Killian stiffened this time, and Arthur wasn't sure he was breathing.

"I don't care, Killian." He murmured. "I don't. I missed you, you know. I was… I guess I was scared."

"You aren't mad?"

"No. I'm just glad you're safe. I could have lost you for good. And I don't ever want that."

* * *

A few weeks later, once Killian had started to feel better, they were running again.

"I warned you!" Sean groaned, clutching his shoulder, "Shit weren't right! It was an ambush!" Blood spilled from between his fingers.

"Just hang on Sean. We'll get you home." Killian said softly. "Hang tight. Hard left boys!" Killian's free arm squeezed Sean's waist. Sean couldn't twist around to fire the gun with his shoulder. It was the next best option they had. 

"Sure am glad you sprung for the English saddle," Sean quipped, or this'd be a might bit more awkward."

"Shut up!" Bill barked from beside them.

"Duck." Killian hissed. A low branch whistled past and the horse barrelled over uneven earth. There was a lawman on their flank, rifle leveled with Killian's head...

Arthur lost sight of them in the trees, but they didn't burst through the woods on the other side like they should have at first. He hears the pop of a rifle and then quiet.

"Killian?!" He cried.

The paint horse burst through the trees, bucking the pair of Irishmen off before falling, blood spilling from a wound in his side.

"Fuck! No! Damnit!" Killian growled. Tears welled in his eyes and he slammed his fist into the dirt. "Damnit…"

"Come on. I'll do it, Killy. You get Sean to Susan and Pearson."

"It's my fault. I don't have enough for a new horse now… and he was a good one." But he sighed, helping Sean across camp while Arthur put Oisín down. He felt bad doing it, but there was no helping the horse in that state. 

Later, at dinner, Arthur sat beside Killian. He still seemed pretty shaken by the ordeal, but better.

"Left the saddle on the hitchin' post by the tent. Tomorrow we'll go get you a new horse, honey."

"Oh, I don't have the money. I'll just hang around camp for a bit…" Killian speared a chunk of undercooked potato with his fork and pushed it around the stew before eating it.

"That reminds me, actually." Arthur pulled the money clip from his pocket. He'd been meaning to give it back to him, but the need hadn't been there to remind him. Killian set his bowl aside as he counted it.

"... did you pay back the loan?" He asked.

"Yeah. From my own money. You was right. Ain't fair to make a man with no means pay that back." Killian's expression was unreadable, confusion and surprise and pride all at once.

And then he kissed him.

It was the first time, in front of every single person in camp, they had kissed quite like that. Abigail covered Jack's eyes and Uncle spilled his bowl of supper, and Killian had to pry himself away to breathe.

"I fucking love you, Arthur."

"Shit, if I knew all I had to do was help the poor for kisses like that, I'd be a damn saint by now." Killian playfully swatted at his cheek and finished his dinner, and despite all the events of the last few weeks, he knew things were en route to get better. As they talked around the fire that night, Arthur couldn't help but feel the happiness wouldn't last. Micah glowered from across the fire, and it turned his blood to ice. His arms wound protectively around Killian's waist and Micah turned away.

"I got late watch with Kieran tonight. I'll wake you up when I come back in." Killian murmured kissing his jaw gently. Arthur let the tension in his shoulders unwind.

"Alright. Keep us safe." As he trailed toward their tent, he caught sight of Wiley and Charles playing cards at the table. Wiley showed Charles and John his cards and grinned, and when Charles looked at him, he just looked so happy. Arthur wondered if he looked that happy when he saw Killian.

The next morning, Arthur woke to the entire camp shouting for Jack. 

"Arthur! Get up!" Killian shook him awake, "Jack is gone."


	8. Cringe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is a chore right now but I'm still doing it 😑. Warning for some period typical racism here.

Charles pushed wet hair from his eyes as he sat on the rock by the shore of Flat Iron Lake. Wiley draped a towel over his shoulder and brought him some stew, watching the cool waters lap at the muddy shore.

"He didn't fall into the lake. I know that much." Charles said. "I swam the whole damn thing almost."

"I know," Wiley said softly, "The boys are gonna find him."

"I feel… I feel kind of responsible." Wiley sat in the dirt beside him, resting his cheek on his knee.

"He's out there. And it ain't your fault, Charles. Ain't no one's fault."

"Yeah? Tell that to Abigail. She's been raring to string both Kieran and Killian up because they were on watch last night." Charles sighed.

The last 12 hours had been a mess. In the early hours of the morning, most of the men left, save Sean, Zeke, and Pearson, to hunt down the Braithwaites. The manor had burned. The boy was nowhere to be found. A potential lead told them Saint Denis, but it had come from the mouth of a dying woman, and Charles had decided to check the lake just in case. Abigail had lunged at Killian and Kieran for defending themselves, saying they hadn't seen anyone take the boy. 

A heron took off from the island in the center of the lake, and Charles tracked it through the air as far as he could before it vanished in the sun.

"Gentlemen! Ladies!" Wiley tensed, and Charles craned his neck.

"Wiley. Pinks."

There were several of them. At least six. All in grey suits and bowler hats. Killian stepped between them and Arthur as Charles did with Wiley and Zeke with Tilly. 

"Ah. Agent Milton… Fancy seeing you here." Killian quipped. Arthur grabbed his wrist but Killian gently pulled free.

"Shamrock O'Malley. I thought you would have gotten far away from here." The pock-marked man sneered, "You know I'm going to pin those murders on you one day."

"Try me, you clod of shit."

"I'm not here for you, Mr. O'Malley. Not today anyway." Agent Milton sauntered so casually, Charles was certain this was a game he was playing

Until it couldn't have been. Killian drew his pearl-handled revolver and pressed it behind Milton's ear.

"I'd run if I were you. And I'd keep running until I hit the coast. And then, I'd still run."

"You're just upset that I caught you, Shamrock… Ah! And Dead-Eye O'Driscoll too! How are you son?" Milton seemed unfazed by the gun pressed to his skull. Wiley grasped Charles' hand but said nothing.

"Listen. If you lot hand over Van Der Linde with no fuss, I'll let you all go. Now that's a bargain, boys." He opened his arms and turned on his heel, "I know just about every one of you has a price on your heads. Shamrock here is a close second for biggest price, but I'm after Dutch."

"Shove off, Milton. We got the advantage." Killian snarled. The rage in his eyes reminded Charles of a mountain lion--they nearly  _ glowed. _

"Oh I assure you, Mr. O'Malley, you do not." They both caught the glint of gun barrels in the woods, and Charles swallowed harshly.

"Dutch ain't here," Killian growled, "probably smelled you comin' from a mile away."

Milton let out a wry sort of chuckle, then--lightning fast-- he turned, twisted Killian's wrist behind his back, which sent his gun skittering across the rock. From his pocket, Milton produced a bowie knife, kicked Killian's knees out from under him, and pressed the knife to his throat. It happened so fast that Charles wasn't exactly sure that was how it had worked, but he'd processed it that way. Wiley tensed, squeezing his hand so tightly that it hurt.

"Enough!" Arthur barked. Killian desperately pulled away from the knife.

"Lucky for you, Mr. Morgan, I don't want him. Not now. One day, but not now." Milton dumped Killian into the dirt, "I'll let you think on it…" Milton spit in Killian's face as he breezed past, and Charles could practically see the steam coming from his ears.

"You coward, Milton!" Killian snarled. There was so much unabashed rage in his voice that Charles almost wasn't sure it was really him, "Come back here and face me like a man!" Milton simply continued toward his company of men and pulled himself into the saddle, " _ Milton!" _

"Good day, Gentlemen." Milton smirked, as he spurred his horse up the path, "Oh, and Dead-eye?" Wiley swallowed harshly, staring the Pinkerton down as he sauntered out of the clearing, "You might rethink your life choices son. Your daddy hates darkies almost as much as he hates queers. Tell your son I said hello." And he was out of sight as Wiley pulled back from Charles' grip.

"I'm takin' your horse," Killian snapped, storming toward the hitching posts.

"What?! Killian!" Arthur barked. But Charles turned his attention to Wiley and the noise faded.

* * *

Arthur's heart launched into his throat when he saw Killian approach the horses.

"Stop! Stop this." Arthur grasped his shoulders and Killian stopped, much to his surprise.

"You can't. You just can't do that. They'll kill you, and I can't let that shit happen. Come on. We need to pack up. I'll go find Dutch and Hosea. They went out to find Jack… You come with me." Killian glared up at him, but obeyed. He was still quivering with fury.

"Arthur! Where are we gonna go?" Lenny piped up.

"Take them to that old house we found. John. You and Len go make sure it's clear."

"And Jack?!" John barked.

"We'll find the damn boy, John!"

"Six weeks. Six fucking weeks. We were here for six FUCKING WEEKS!" Bill grumbled.

"We'll get out of here, Bill. We'll be fine," Javier said, and the rest of the chatter faded. Once they were out of the main camp and a ways down the trail, Arthur reined Frost to a stop.

"You need to get a grip. You been acting wild since you been back."

"Leave me be, Arthur." Killian mumbled.

"Then get off my horse."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Get off my horse."

"I ain't goin nowhere."

"Then you talk to me, damnit." Killian turned, and Arthur couldn't quite place the expression on his face.

"I want out. Of the gang, of all this… Sean almost died. Dutch is trusting Micah. If we keep going like this, Arthur, we're going to die."

Arthur's heart sank. He knew it was only a matter of time before Killian backed out again.

"Killian, we need money…"

"And I got it. I got plenty… You won't go with me, will you?" Killian scanned his face, and Arthur sighed through his teeth.

"I… No. I won't. You know I can't. I owe it to Dutch…" Killian sighed and slid down from the saddle, "So…"

"Arthur. We need to go. We have to go. Dutch is going to drag us down. People are going to get hurt."

"Then I guess we get dragged down. Where the fuck do you wanna go? Tahiti?"

"Tahiti is a pipe dream. You know it is. We got Pinks on our tails now. You and I both know how this ends. Bloody, messy, lot of bodies and a lot of broken hearts. Dutch is gonna get people killed." Arthur stared him down from Frost's back, hand resting on his pistol, not to draw it but to have something to do with his fingers. 

"... it was a pretty dream anyway, leaving this behind."

Arthur swallowed hard, and Killian sighed, scrubbing at his eyes to fight back tears, "I'm real sorry for you. You can't see it. Jack's gone. We have to leave here. Six weeks is all we had here. We had four months at Horseshoe. People are gonna die, Arthur. And I don't want to watch it happen."

"There ain't no getting out. You remember when Hosea left for a while when we was kids? He always came back. You can't just leave this all behind."

"I want to try!"

They stared each other down for a few beats. Each had a point, but neither wanted to admit they were partially wrong. Finally, Arthur sighed.

"Come on."

"Why?"

"You ain't gonna get far without a horse. And we ain't gonna get far without Dutch." He helped Killy back onto the horse, one arm looped around his waist. His back fit against Arthur's chest, and he pressed a kiss to the back of the Irishman's neck, "it's gonna be over soon, Killian. I got a plan."

"If I hear one more person say that word one more time, I'm gonna die." Killian managed a chuckle

"It's a good plan, you'll like it…" Arthur spurred Frost forward and down the path. The clatter of the camp faded as it was packed up, and Killian tucked himself into Arthur's arms. Despite everything, this was where he felt best. Safest. 

The ride was short, and Killian wasn't exactly sure where they were heading, but they eventually came the stable south of Emerald Ranch. 

"I know the feller who runs this one. He'll get us a good horse." Arthur said. Killian smiled faintly and slid from Frost's back.

"Yeah? I hope so… I want something fast."

"He had a few Nokota here last time I was out. Little speed demons, they was. They wrangled a couple and broke-em from up in the Dakotas. Real pretty one, black head and this pretty blue roan body. Mare."

"He still got her?"

"Think so. Ike! You got that blue roan Nokota?" The man that had just come from the barn nodded.

"Yeah! You wanna take a look at her?" Killian tried not to look too eager as he nodded, and Ike showed them to her stall. The inside of the barn was musty and smelled of horse, but Killian smiled anyway. He loved animals. Always had. They came to a stall at the end that housed the once-feral mare.

She was still a little wild, strong legs and sharp eyes, but when she took the peppermint from Killian's palm she was gentle. 

"How much?" He asked.

"Four-fifty. You wanna probably take her out in the paddock though. She's a tough girl."

"She's perfect. I just know."

"You sure?" Arthur asked. 

"I just got a feeling… you said four-fifty?" He pulled out his money clip and handed over the money, smoothing a hand over her neck as Ike brought her out. Something in her eyes seemed to calm as Killian brushed her coat over. She whickered gently, nosing Killian's pocket for another peppermint, and Arthur smiled faintly.

* * *

What felt like days later, camp was unpacked. Even this late in November, this deep in the south, it was unpleasantly warm, and the air was more water than oxygen. Charles checked how sturdy his tent was one last time when Wiley and Zeke boarded up broken windows. The nights did cool things down, and no one wanted wind whistling into the already-dilapidated house.

"Here." Tilly offered Charles a canteen of water and he sat back to take a sip.

"You okay?" He asked. Her brows were furrowed low over her eyes, one hand smoothed over the small bump beginning to show in her belly.

"Just thinkin', Charles. Are we gonna be safe out here?" He held his hand out toward her and she took it. Though he liked just about everyone, Tilly reminded him of his sister. Emma, wherever she was, would have been about her age. His younger sister had found a man and settled down in a reservation up north, but Charles had always wanted more. Wife or otherwise, he wasn't ready for it yet.

Wife seemed out of the question now.

"I dunno," he said finally. She sat beside him on a folding stool, watching Wiley and Zeke on the second floor landing.

"Well it's better than nothing," she said gently. They shared the silence for a few minutes, Charles sipping water and Tilly watching her man work.

"Hey. What do you think of Wiley?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, laughter touching her voice.

"I just want to know your opinion," When she still seemed unsure, he propped himself up with his arms behind him, "I think Zeke is great. Seems like a good kid, wants the best for all of us. 'Cept maybe Micah. Loyal to a fault… Surprised he's stayed so true."

"Come on now," she chided.

"I just mean, he's glued to Wiley's hip."

"They're brothers Charlie," Tilly said, kicking his boot.

"Yeah, well… what about Wiley?"

"Are you wanting me to reassure you or give you my honest opinion?"

"That implies they're different…" Charles winced a little.

"Not the way you think. I think…" Tilly trailed off, gathering herself, "I think there's a lot more to him than just the little bits of his life he's told us. I think something happened to him. Something way worse than we know."

Zeke yelped from up on the landing, and Tilly and Charles looked up in time to see Wiley pull him back from the edge. There were gaps in the railing where the wood had rotted away, and Zeke had lost his footing. Both were laughing, real, raucous laughter.

"Zeke!"

"I'm alright Tilly." He called, waving down to her as if nothing had happened. She blew a sigh through her teeth.

"I swear, your daddy's gonna be the death of me, little one."

"How are you feeling?" Charles asked. She shrugged a shoulder.

"Not bad. Still sicker than a dog in the mornings, but by afternoon I feel okay. I think I can feel her moving sometimes."

"Her?" Charles glanced up at her.

"I feel like it's a girl." She said gently, "I know you miss your sister, Charles. You know anything about where she's at?" He shook his head, getting up and dusting dried-up muck from his hands.

"Nope. All I know is she married an Indian and she lives up north. I'm sure Em's fine though… Here. Your canteen. Drink plenty of that, Till."

"Yes, Mama," she teased, getting back up to help the other girls with the washing. Charles went to help Kieran clear out the shed and keep an eye on Sean, but his thoughts stayed focused on Wiley.

* * *

By evening, Arthur was back with Killian, Hosea and Dutch. Killian immediately set to brushing and saddling up his new horse while Arthur and the two leaders disappeared inside the house to discuss. Wiley trotted up to Killian, gloved hands smoothing over the horse's neck.

"She's a beauty," he murmured, awestruck. Killian chuckled.

"Ain't she? Ain't named her yet, looking for something… I dunno."

"Something spooky?" Wiley teased. Killian rolled his eyes but smiled. As he fitted the saddle around the horse's girth, Wiley sighed.

"Hey, I… Uh…"

"What's up?"

"Can we talk? I been thinkin'..." Killian frowned, hitching the Nokota to the post and fishing a peppermint from his pocket for her.

"About?"

"That money. I just… I don't want you thinking I'm still going after it. Up until a few weeks ago, maybe, but… Not now." Killian blew a sigh of relief.

"Good. Neither am I. That money's as good as a myth. You've done good these past few weeks…" Killy gently punched his shoulder, and Wiley grinned.

"Thanks," Killian turned back to his horse, thinking the conversation done, until Wiley swiftly wrapped him in a hug. 

"Oh!"

"Sorry. I just--that means a lot…" Wiley tugged his hat down over his ears and Killian chortled.

"Nah. No need to be sorry. I'm glad you finally feel safe somewhere." 

"So you and Arthur are back together now?" Wiley asked.

"We never split, I guess, but yeah."

"Do you love him?" Killian jumped a little.

"... I… I dunno. I guess so." He leaned against the hitching post and Wiley followed suit, lighting up a cigarette. Killian mimicked him in lighting one of his own.

"Have you told him?"

"No… Shit keeps getting in the way. Like him doing dumb shit, or me getting kidnapped shit. Or the Pinkertons showing up shit."

"Are you  _ gonna  _ tell him?" Killian blew a stream of smoke from his nose.

"... I should. But… I don't know. Between you and me, I don't think he knows how to love something anymore." Wiley frowned.

"That ain't very kind…"

"It's true. Hosea won't tell me what happened, but I think I know. When we were kids, he went off for a while with this waitress. Loved the girl like a sister, I did. Eliza, I think. They had a son. He used to go off for a few weeks at a time, spend some time with them, then leave again. This was way out west. Funny enough, I was there when she had the boy. Long story, that… he used to talk so much about them. Now he doesn't. And I find out he's been with this other lad, Albert… somethin' bad happened to Eliza and the boy, I think."

Wiley looked up, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"Was the boy blonde, and his mother a red-head?"

"... Yeah." 

Wiley swallowed.

"My daddy killed them himself. Tried to make me do it. I didn't. That was out West, near Four Corners, right?" 

"Yeah... Christ alive. That explains it then. Can't imagine how he felt finding out. He loved that boy. Now all this, he won't have a second chance."

"Maybe he don't want a second chance." Wiley offered. 

"Nah, Arthur is… Arthur would make a good daddy to some poor kid who needs one. If he wants that, he should have it."

They stared off into the woods, the air thick and wet with an incoming storm, and Wiley gently grasped Killian's shoulder.

"I'm gonna go grab some supper. You need any?"

"Nah. I gotta think some." Wiley snuffed his cigarette into the mud and trailed back to the campfire, leaving Killian to his thoughts and his distance.

* * *

"Why are you down here with us?" Javier asked later that night. Killian looked up from his supper and shrugged.

"Dunno. That tiny little room's just not something I'm used to I guess. I haven't slept under a roof for more than a night since I was small. I dunno. Thought of sleepin' in there made me uneasy."

"I think it's c-cause of A-Abigail." Kieran teased, "thought she was gonna have b-both our hides."

"Yeah well, Dutch, John, Arthur'n me are goin' out to the city tomorrow if the storm don't wash us away. Got a lead on an Angelo Bronté. Name rings some bells." Javier idly strummed his guitar in thought.

"Didn't you spend some time with a rich feller up there?"

"Gaspard Comtois. Yeah." Killian shifted uneasily, picking at the scars on the back of his hand. 

"Who took over his whole empire when you killed him?"

"Dunno. I ran. Pretty sure it was this Italian business partner he had… You think it might be Bronté?" 

Javier shrugged, "All I know is, it's too convenient to be a coincidence. Rich italian taking over a dead Frenchman's illicit businesses in a big city, five years later some asshole with an Italian name steals a kid? Too convenient. Especially when we know his former partner had a penchant for luring in youngsters."

"I was a bit old to be a 'youngster'," Killian said.

"Younger than Comtois." Javier shrugged. Killian sank into the dirt. It was a pretty night, but the clouds to the north-west sparked and crackled with lightning. The horses had huddled up into a mass in the corner of the makeshift paddock they had put together. Kieran watched them like a hawk, and Killian sat next to him and Sean after he went to trade in his stew bowl for a bottle of whiskey.

"How's your arm?" He asked. Sean shrugged his good shoulder.

"Hurts." He muttered.

"Rest up. I need you for a robbery here soon."

"You? Plannin' a robbery? Now I seen it all." Sean grinned.

"Shut your trap, Sean." Killian smiled though and sipped his whiskey, "it's a stage. Two coaches, a couple of guards."

"It a real lead?"

"Ain't no bank plant, I promise that much. Got it fresh from that little prick in Rhodes a few days before we had to move. It comes once a month. Missed our chance this time. Next month though."

"What kind of stage?" Sean leaned forward eagerly, and Killian laughed, chugging from the bottle.

"Payroll for the logging camp out by Strawberry. They just hired a whole herd of fresh meat and they doubled their stageload. But the company's been hemorrhaging cash so they barely stock up on security." Sean looked to Kieran, who shook his head.

"No. I ain't goin'. T-the horses need me. Y'all can go though."

"Oh come on, Kieran! Live a little! You ever rob a stage before?" Sean stood, his good arm outstretched while his injured one hung in the sling. "The thrill of the chase. The money. The adrenaline. You gotta come with us!"

Kieran rolled his eyes.

"Thirty days, Sean. You get back on your feet and you can come along." The elder Irishman muttered.

"Oi! Killian. That ugly fucker, what did he call you?" Killian downed the rest of the bottle and reached for the flask in his boot, grinning.

"Shamrock."

"You didn't have some name when you were 'round this way last…" Sean sat back down, and Killian shrugged as he swigged more alcohol.

"Eh, a few years ago I got into a tussle at a saloon, dueled 3 men that day. Killed all of 'em. Law asked for my name, and I told them it was Shamrock McGee. First part stuck. Second didn't."

"Shamrock… The blasphemy. And that little O'Driscoll brat stole mine!"

"You ain't no D-dead-Eye. You got your arm sh-shot off almost." Kieran chastised. Sean turned and fixed him with the most puzzling glare Killian had ever seen.

"Want me to show you Dead-Eye, boy?"

"I'll give you pair your space." Killian stood, finished his flask, and swayed a little on his trip to his tent.

Alone.

It felt odd.

* * *

The next day they would all be hunting a man with John's son. But that night, Charles's mind was miles away. He tucked his long, dark hair back with a leather cord and folded his half-flat pillow, and Wiley touched his shoulder gently.

"Want mine?" He asked.

"No. You need one too." Charles scanned him quizzically, and Wiley shrugged his shoulders. Under that big black duster, he looked half the size, and though he was mostly sinew, that agile, catlike frame was backed up with muscle. Charles had never actually seen him without the duster, and the vest, and the baggy overshirt. Charles was a wolf and Wiley was a coyote. Different, but oddly similar.

"You been quiet."

"I'm always quiet." Charles said softly. The question drifted back to the forefront, and Charles took a deep breath to ask it, "So you have a son?"

"Ah. Wondering when you would ask. I do. Yeah."

"But I thought…"

"I am. But, when I met his mama, I didn't want to be. I thought I could make myself feel 'right' if I met the right girl. I do love his mother. Just not… Rightly." Charles was quiet for a moment. More questions bubbled up, but he picked the most inoffensive first.

"What's his name?"

"James. But he likes Jamie. He's a lot like his mama. Nothing like me, thank God."

"You seen them recently?"

"Christmas." The conversation was rapid-fire. Every one of Charles' questions were answered swiftly.

"And her name?"

"Alice."

"Where do they live?"

"North. Up near Annesburg."

"Does she know?"

"No."

Charles was out of questions. Wiley had more answers. "Her parents don't mind. I send them money every couple months, visit when I can. Jamie's 4…"

Charles nodded. It made sense. He had done some things to deny who he really was to himself, too.

"I want to meet them."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to meet Jamie and Alice. It's time you told them anyway."

"... Charles, it's a little early to be concerned about my relationship with my son."

"Hey. If I'm gonna be in this for the long haul, I need to get used to it. I wanna know him. You love that boy, right?"

"I do. More than anything."

"Then I should too."

Wiley scanned him for a moment in the low light as thunder grumbled in the clouds that rapidly approached. Charles moved to roll onto his side but Wiley caught his jaw and kissed him. Hard. So hard that Charles' lip split and he tasted a tiny drop of blood.

"You gotta love me first, right?" Wiley asked, pulling back as if he'd burned himself.

"I do." Charles whispered.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted you to say that." Wiley whispered back. Charles crushed their lips together in another rough kiss, fingers twisting in Wiley's curls, and when he pulled back he grasped Wiley's hand.

"I do. I do love you."

"I love you too." 

"Oh, will the pair of you just shut up? No one wants to see your perverted crap." Micah snarled. Wiley flipped him the bird, and Micah only chortled, "do that again, and I'll make you wish you were never born."

"Nice try. I  _ already _ wish I was never born. You aren't scary, Micah." In a flash, Micah drew his revolver and aimed it square between Wiley's eyes. Wiley didn't flinch, just inclined his head a fraction of an inch, "Name the time and place, you sorry sack of shit. I'll turn your brains into crow food."

"Like to see you try. You're a worm, O'Driscoll."

"Wiley, easy now. Come on. Let's go." Charles pushed himself to his feet and took Wiley's hand kindly but firmly, guiding him away from Micah. Micah gave a little half-wave and chuckled as they dipped away toward the shed in the back.

"Where we gonna go? Ain't never gonna be rid of folk like him."

"No we ain't. But we can at least get away for a little while." Charles pushed open the door to the old shed. It smelled of wood--the sour scent of cypress and the light, mulled smell of fresh cut logs, and Wiley sighed and sank against the wall, and Charles sat with him. It was dark in there, and Wiley could just barely make out his outline against the black shadows.

"What's your angle here, Charlie?"

"No angle. Just getting you away from Micah." Wiley pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them.

"I'm just nervous… All this mess…"

"You don't have to be. We'll be okay." Charles tucked Wiley under his chin and kissed his forehead, and Wiley relaxed substantially. For a few moments they just sat together, relaxing in the quiet. Rain began to patter off the tin roof, and Charles half-expected someone else to scurry toward the shed, but no one came.

Wiley's fingers traced the scar that curled cruelly over Charles' jaw.

"Soldiers took my mother. I tried to fight them off. Didn't work."

"I'm… I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be. It was a long time ago… What happened to your mama?"

"You know. She died."

"How, Wiley?"

".... that's what I'm not sure about. I was real small. Like… One. Maybe two. Daddy thought she'd been sleeping around so he shot her. In the back. Zeke says he was trying to shoot me, but Mama turned around and tried to run." He shrugged a shoulder, smoothing the soft pad of his thumb over a small scar under Charles' eye.

Later, when the cool tips of his fingers traced the wolf bite on his shoulder or the gnarled bullet scar on his hip, a chill would race up his spine. Or the way Wiley sighed his name. Or the way he kissed his neck, fingers twisted into dark hair.

Things may well have gone to hell in a handbasket, but at least he had something to hold on to. He hadn't had that in a while. Maybe ever.

Wiley was his. He would keep him safe.

Even if it killed him


End file.
